


The Gold Fleece

by Eilinelithil



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - In Storybrooke | Cursed (Once Upon a Time), Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, First Time, Rumbelle Christmas in July (Once Upon a Time), UST, rcij
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25509010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilinelithil/pseuds/Eilinelithil
Summary: Belle wakes from a coma with no memory of who she is. Following a suggestion from her therapist she seeks to take up a craft she used to do /before/ as a way to jog her memory. After making a deal with Storybrooke's craft store owner, it seems that the good Doctor Hopper may have been right... or was he?Nominated in the 2021 Espenson Awards for the Best One Shot category.Nominated in the 2021 Espenson Awards for the Rumbelle Christmas In July category.
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Comments: 17
Kudos: 55





	The Gold Fleece

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Of_Princes_and_Savages](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Of_Princes_and_Savages/gifts).



> Written for of-princes-and-savages on Tumblr for July 2020 Rumbelle Christmas In July. The prompt was crafter Belle and store owner Gold.
> 
> Dialogue from the show presented here is for the purposes of entertainment only, and remains the property of ABC/Disney.

“It’s just…” she took a breath and sighed, falling silent until Doctor Hopper prompted her.

“Go on,” he said.

“It’s frustrating,” she admitted in a small voice. “It’s bad enough that I can’t remember _anything_ of my adult life from before the accident, and only snatches from when I was younger, but… but to not remember _who_ I am, or the people who say they were in my life before - Ruby, and… Leroy, and… and Jefferson…!”

“Ysabelle,” he said sympathetically, using her name - at least the one they’d told her was on her ID when they pulled her from the wreckage of her car: Ysabelle French, “We’ve talked about this. It’s going to take time. You had severe trauma in the accident, and you’re lucky to have woken at all, just… give yourself a break, hmm?”

She sighed again, lowering her head as she did. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m trying, honestly.”

“Yes, you are,” Doctor Hopper said, and reached out to press a brief, light touch to the back of her hand. “I know you are.” A soft, measured knock sounded twice at the door, which made the doctor look up at the clock. “Sounds like your ride is here.”

“Yes,” she said, reaching over awkwardly for where she had laid her crutches.

“And perhaps next time we can talk about why you left your father off that list of people you recited.”

“List?” she frowned in confusion, beginning the struggle to rise.

“Of people who were in your life ‘before’ as you put it,” he said.

“Oh,” she said entirely without enthusiasm, “that.”

“Anyway, that’s for another time,” he said as he leaned down to help her get up from the couch, and once she had her crutches settled, moved to open the door and reveal Ruby’s smiling face. “Just… think about my suggestion,” Doctor Hopper said as she maneuvered around his office to join him at the door. Ruby reached out and took her purse from her.

“Thank you, Doctor Hopper,” she said, “I’ll… see you next time.”

“Next week,” he said cheerfully. “It’s just good to be doing this in my office and not from beside your hospital bed.”

“Absolutely,” Belle said, and finally smiled. “I’m looking forward to… going home.”

“Speaking of which,” Ruby interrupted brightly, “Leroy is over there now, making sure everything is ready for you.”

* * *

The inventory that had been delivered earlier that day was taking longer to process than usual; longer to shelve what needed to be shelved, and store the remaining items in the back of the shop. He was distracted, and he didn’t know why. Consequently, he looked with longing toward the wheel that sat in pride of place beside the counter whereon stood the antique register next to his workspace.

Sitting at the wheel, spinning his own yarn, served a dual purpose. It calmed his mind and allowed him to think and to settle his emotions, and it also provided him with a source of inventory that he didn’t have to buy from someone else. The Nolan’s provided him with wool from their sheep in return for a reduction in the rent on the property, and he was a skilled enough herbalist to be able to make his own dyes. It was the perfect arrangement.

With a sigh, he bent down to open the last of the enormous boxes from his suppliers and began pulling out the items, checking them off on the invoice as he took them out, and setting them into various piles or baskets so that he could more easily take them to the shelves where they belonged; knitting needles, crochet hooks, embroidery hoops…

The bell above the shop door tinkled, and he looked up in time to see Widow Lucas weaving her way through the many discarded boxes that he hadn’t yet had the chance to break down.

“Missus Lucas,” he greeted her softly as he straightened up, adding, “Pardon the mess. Delivery day, you see.”

She waved away his comment. “I know how it is, Gold,” she said with her usual bluster, “It’s just the same at the diner, believe me.”

“I do,” he said, and offered her a smile. “What can I do for you today?”

“I need another skein of that yarn you sold me,” she said with a sniff. “Didn’t quite have enough to finish the border on the shawl.”

Gold sighed, and shook his head a little as he came around the half unpacked box and headed, not for the many shelves of yarn that lined the walls of his shop, but for the curtain that separated off the back room.

“Didn’t I tell you, you’d probably need one more?” he asked as he went.

“’I told you so’ is unbecoming of a gentleman,” Widow Lucas called after him, and he chuckled as he retrieved the skein of yarn he’d set aside after her previous purchase, returning to the counter to wrap it, and then bring it to her where she still stood amid the boxes, like some kind of mighty lighthouse on a rocky shore.

“And yet,” he answered as he held out the yarn to her, “here we are.”

“Here we are indeed,” she said with a sniff, and began reaching into the basket where he knew she kept her wallet.

“Take it,” he said, holding the yarn out closer to her, “please, I insist.”

“What are you up to, Gold,” she said, as her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Nothing, I assure you,” he said, slipping the skein of yarn into the basket hooked over her arm rather than waiting for her to take it from him. “Call it an… act of conscience, for not being gentlemanly.” Widow Lucas made a face at that, and he chuckled softly. “What, you don’t believe me?”

“I don’t _trust_ that you’re not up to something,” she said, and it could have stung, but for the amused tone he heard in her voice. “I’ll tell you what, next morning coffee at the diner is on the house. I’ll even throw in a pastry for good measure.”

“Allow me to see the shawl when it’s finished, and we have a deal,” he said.

* * *

Belle put down the book, and rubbed her forehead as if she could reach the ache behind her eyes. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy the book, she liked it immensely, but she had been reading since mid-morning, and it was now the middle of the afternoon. Between reading all the time, and staring at the four walls of one room or another of her cottage, she was feeling well and truly trapped. The frustration of it brought tears to her eyes and she wiped them away almost angrily.

Trapped inside her own head, trapped inside her own home. How much longer would it be before she healed enough, was strong enough to be able to _do_ anything, go anywhere on her own? How much longer until she remembered? Defiantly, she made a decision and reached for her crutches.

“Hey, hey, hey…” 

She heard the voice before she saw the speaker, before she felt the gentle grasp of his hands against her upper arms, supportive as she struggled with the crutches.

“What’s going on, Belle?” She looked up at Jefferson, whose already concerned face became a picture of worry. “Are you in pain? Do you need your pills?”

She shook her head and once again, angrily wiped at the wetness on her face.

“No,” she said. Morose, but becoming less so she grabbed her determination and wrapped it around her like a cloak. “I need you to take me into town… please.”

“Town?” he echoed, as if she were speaking to him in another language.

“Yes, town,” she raised her voice in frustration, “the place where all the shops are. The place where there are _people_ who do something more than just sit on a couch all day and feel—”

“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Jefferson interjected. “You know that, right?”

“It’s not _about_ that,” she said, leaning against him just a little bit. “I need to do more than just… sit and read from the minute I get up until I go back to bed.”

“I thought you liked books,” he teased, the cheeky grin on his face starting to chip at the wall of frustration in which she had surrounded herself. “Weren’t you the one that, only last week, told me you once dreamed that a strange little man had given you a library? Or… was that some _other_ Belle I know?”

“Very funny,” she said dryly, then added, “And I do like books, but I’ve also been thinking about what Doctor Hopper said, that maybe if I tried doing something that I know I _used_ to enjoy, it might help to jog my memory… help me remember who I _am?_ ”

“Okay?” Jefferson said with a nod, though his tone was confused. “And… what is it that you remembered you used to do that requires a trip into town and ‘people that do something.’” There was a beat before he added, “Don’t tell me you remembered you were involved in the latest bank heist and wanted to give it another try, I— Ow!”

Belle nudged his side with her elbow, then glared at him, but could only keep the serious expression on her face for a moment before the giggle escaped her.

“That was friend abuse, you know that?” he accused, but the smile that cracked his face was almost dazzling. “All right. Where is it that M’lady wishes to go on this grand adventure.”

“The craft store,” she said without pause.

“The craft store?” he repeated, without expression.

“Yes. The Gold Fleece,” she confirmed.

“Gold’s?”

“Well, do you know of any _other_ craft stores in town?” She began gathering her crutches more securely against her again as she continued. “Yes, Gold’s. Where else am I going to get the things I need… yarn, hooks, patterns…?”

“But…” the playful expression that was on his face a moment ago had partially vanished. “Isn’t that something you could buy online and have it delivered?”

“Yes, but I want it _today_ ,” she said, “Not in a week.”

“Amazon Prime,” he suggested.

“Or even tomorrow,” she countered. “If this has even the slightest chance of working, I don’t want to wait. Have you _any_ idea what it’s like not to remember your life, who you are…?”

“I wish,” Jefferson murmured under his breath.

“What?” Belle snapped her gaze back up to him as she thought she heard what he had said.

“If you wish,” he said, though she _knew_ that wasn’t what he’d said, not at all, and she frowned at him again. “And when is it that you did this… craft that you want to rediscover now?”

She also knew this was his way of diverting her from asking any more questions, but she let it slide - though filing his response away - wanting to put her plan in motion before anyone managed to change her mind.

* * *

His foot tapped to an unheard rhythm, keeping time for the whir of the wheel. His hands moved, the right back and forth between the carded fleece - the drafting - in his lap, and the rapidly spinning bobbin, and his left stroke up and down the newly twisted yarn. He was at peace; completely in harmony with what he was doing, yet also aware of the world around him, perhaps even _more_ so in his near meditative state. 

Thus, when the bell above the door sounded, he was able to look up, and smile at his new visitors without missing a beat of motion.

“Good afternoon,” he said, his voice softly purring against the turning of the wheel. “How may I help you?”

One of the two he recognized. The man’s name was Jefferson. He knew he lived on the outskirts of Storybrooke, but of much else than that, he’d have to say, he wasn’t aware. The other, a young woman, stepped out from behind her taller companion, and it was _that_ which caused his foot to falter in its tapping rhythm, and for him to reach to slow, and stop the wheel.

She was much shorter than Jefferson, with waves of chestnut hair flowing around her shoulders to frame her pale and really quite beautiful face, but the hint of cosmetics she wore did little to hide the fact that her eyes were shadowed, and not, he guessed, simply through lack of sleep. It wasn’t easy to miss, after all, the fact that she supported herself on crutches.

“Forgive me,” he said at once, standing up from behind the wheel and taking up his cane to walk over to the two of them, his gait uneven due to his own limp. “How inattentive of me,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Mister Gold, proprietor here. If there’s anything that I can get for you…”

The woman smiled, and Gold thought the whole world seemed brighter for it, his heart skipped almost painfully for a moment, and then she spoke. Her accent flowed between them like a melody that he’d once known but which, until now, had eluded him.

“Mister Gold,” she said, “I’m Ysabelle. Ysabelle French… or so they tell me anyway.”

“I’m… I’m, I’m sorry,” he stammered, “I don’t understand.”

The young woman shook her head and offered an apologetic smile. “I should be the one to apologize,” she said quietly. “I was involved in an accident some time ago, and have only recently been discharged from the hospital… unfortunately with amnesia.”

“Ah,” he answered sagely, and glanced at the woman’s companion, wondering what Jefferson had to do with her. The other man looked back at him with a closed, expressionless gaze. Uncomfortable for a moment, he turned his attention back to Miss French and asked, “So, how can I help you?”

“Well, Doctor Hopper recently suggested taking up a hobby I used to have when I was younger,” she explained, “and I recalled I used to crochet, so I thought I might give it a try. I don’t have any of the equipment I need though, so… here I am.”

“Here you are indeed,” Gold agreed, this time with a genuine smile. Then looking to Jefferson to include him in the question as he moved toward them, asked, “May I?”

As Jefferson looked at him in a mixture of confusion and incredulity - which brought a very strange expression to his face, complete with raised eyebrows, Gold closed the distance between them came to a halt before them.

“Belle favors her right,” Jefferson said by way of agreement, and Gold _thought_ he detected a hint of deliberate emphasis on the woman’s name. It niggled at him in a way he couldn’t explain, but he managed - he thought - to keep it from his response. “Of course,” he said and moved to Miss French’s right, beginning to lead her further into the shop, where an upright display held crochet hooks and knitting needles both individually and in sets for beginner and experts alike.

“Do you crochet, Mister Gold?” Miss French asked as they came to a halt and she turned a little his way to look at him.

“I can, as a matter of fact. I knit as well, though most people seem not to think it a fitting pass-time for a man,” he told her, and watched as she frowned, before he continued. “I spin my own yarn too, and I weave - there’s a small loom in the back.” He gestured toward the curtain that hung across the doorway.

“That’s quite impressive, Mister Gold. It must keep you very busy,” she said.

“It… passes the time,” he said, with a slight shrug of his shoulders a small feeling of embarrassment came over him, along with the little bud of a knot in his stomach. Resisting the urge to clear his throat, he asked, “So, what kind of project are you looking for?”

“Well, to begin with, I’m hoping to get back into the swing of things.” She answered. “It’s been many years, and to anticipate a question you might ask, I don’t have _any_ of the supplies I used to have before.”

“Then might I suggest…” he began, reaching out to select the set of hooks with ergonomic handles in a pastel green color from the display, which he handed to Miss French. She released the handles of her crutches and examined the packet as he said, “They’re designed to reduce the stress of repetitive motion on muscles and joints. I use them, and find them most agreeable to work with.”

She nodded, then asked, “Though might I have the blue?”

“Of course,” he said, and changed the packet at once, adding, “The… store has a special offer currently. A zipper case to store the hooks comes with this particular package. Th… there’s only a few left, but since you seem to like blue, perhaps _this_ case might suit.”

He reached out for a rectangular case - like a pencil case, but with the zipper all the way around - the main color was a soft ivory color, but the motif, painted onto the surface of the fabric was of a stem, with delicate petaled flowers. It was stylized and painted entirely in a rich, deep blue, but it was beautiful none-the-less. For some reason it spoke to him and he felt it was _meant_ for her.

“It’s beautiful,” she answered, “Thank you.”

She reached out then, placing a light touch to the sleeve of his suit jacket, and Gold’s breath caught as he felt as though she had given him the world.

* * *

Leaning, as he was, against the display case beside the door, Jefferson watched with his arms folded across his chest. Bringing Belle this close to Rumplestiltskin again worried him to no end - not that he thought that he’d harm her. In fact, he was pretty sure that the man was not yet awake, odd as that seemed. Jefferson was not a betting man, not any more, but if anyone had asked him to wager if Rumplestiltskin would allow himself to suffer the curse _without_ retaining his memories, he would have wagered against. No, he was concerned in case their proximity to one another triggered something else that Regina might have written into the curse, something that would harm either of them any more than Belle had already been harmed.

_Damn the woman!_

He gasped softly, straightening up and uncrossing his arms, ready for fight or flight. He recognized the pattern on the case that Rumplestiltskin was offering to Belle as she ran her fingers along the line leading to the petal of the flowers.

 _Was_ he awake?

As if his thought, or more likely his movements, had drawn Rumplestiltskin’s gaze Gold looked his way, and Jefferson offered an awkward smile, holding his breath while searching for some recognition in the other man’s eyes.

He saw none, though that did not allow him to relax. There was definitely _something_ at work here, and the tension in the air of the shop felt like the gathering ozone of a sudden summer storm, prickly and uncomfortable. Jefferson swallowed hard.

* * *

“Yarn, of course,” Mister Gold said, “What kind of project did you have in mind?”

“Nothing too taxing to begin with,” she answered. “As I said, I’m… still trying to remember. Perhaps you have some simple patterns I could follow?”

She felt Mister Gold’s scrutiny as he stood regarding her silently for several long moments. It should have felt uncomfortable, but she was certain she could feel a strange pull toward him, and saw then his desire to help her as much as he was able. He held up a hand, finger extended, as though he’d just had an idea.

“I know just the thing,” he said, and gestured toward the counter before reaching to take the items she held from her hands so that she could use her crutches. She followed him to the counter and watched in fascination as he took a large book from beneath the counter. It looked old, was bound in leather, and from what she could see of the edges of the paper, the pages were browning with the passage of time.

“I’ve… kept this since I was younger,” he told her, “and I learned my skill in crochet by following the patterns written on its pages. Perhaps you’d care to borrow it, work through some of the patterns yourself?”

Belle gasped softly, truly touched by the gesture, though slightly discomfited at the amount of trust such a gesture displayed, and she a total stranger to the man.

“Oh,” she said, so tempted, but, “I couldn’t possibly—”

“Nonsense,” he said, his tone nothing but sincere, “In fact, I insist.”

“But it’s so personal,” she argued softly.

“My dear,” he said, “What good is knowledge if it isn’t shared?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“Please, Miss French,” he said. “I would consider it an honor.”

She took in a deep breath, her insides quivering as she felt on the precipice of something new, something that would be a step in the right direction toward her healing, but to take such a precious possession, even for a time… could she?

She took another breath, and looked between the book and Mister Gold several times, before she acquiesced to the sense of near urgency that was growing inside of her. She swallowed and said, “Then… thank you, Mister Gold, that’s… most kind, but you must allow me to do something for _you_ in return. Name it, and I shall—”

“Have tea with me,” It was not quite a question. “Each Friday, in the afternoon.” He paused for a beat before adding, “It will give you the chance to tell me how you’re getting on, and to ask, if you find yourself with questions… about the crochet, I mean.”

Belle blinked a little. It was such as simple request, a simple price for access to what looked like a lifetime of knowledge and technique, not to mention in the company of a fine gentleman like Mister Gold.

“I accept,” she said softly, her fingers almost tingling with anticipation of what she might find within the pages of his book.

“Good,” he said then, and turning the book to the right way up for her, he came to stand beside her, opened the book and added, “So, let’s see what yarn you might need, shall we?”

* * *

It turned out that crochet was like the proverbial riding of a bicycle: it was something you did not forget, at least as far as the basics were concerned. Belle found, with a small amount of practice, that she had soon picked up the consistency of her stitches and her gauge. She was glad that she had purchased sufficient yarn for a number of the projects found at the beginning of Mister Gold’s book.

The book itself was a masterpiece, there was no other way she could describe it; a masterpiece of information, but also in a true artistic sense.

The instructions were hand written, with beautiful penmanship, and each stitch each variation was hand drawn; illustrated to show the perfect execution of hook and yarn. It was truly breathtaking the amount of painstaking work that must have gone into the crafting of the book. She felt truly blessed to be allowed not only the use, but the _care_ of such a treasure.

During the evenings, when she wasn’t reading her novel, or continuing with a crochet project, she found herself drawn to the book, leafing through the pages to examine the wonders within. The book held the promise of shawls and throws, winter blankets and rugs, even baskets and small hampers, and that was only part way into the book.

She found herself looking forward to the coming Friday afternoon so that she might discuss, with Mister Gold, the secrets she had discovered within his book. They had arranged that he would call for her at two p.m. and he would drive her to Granny’s. They both felt it more appropriate for their first afternoon tea to be taken in a public space so as to avoid any hint of scandal or gossip, and as both Gold and Jefferson had assured her, Storybrooke was rife enough with that.

* * *

“And you have my number,” Jefferson said as he drove her home from Gold’s shop, “in case you need to make a quick getaway.”

“Ruby will be working,” she told him. “She has the afternoon shift at the diner all this week. I’m sure she can defend me from the advances of the ‘dreaded Mister Gold’ if he should act in any way inappropriately.” She chuckled a bit then, followed by a sigh, then added, “She’d probably empty the coffee pot right into his lap.”

Jefferson, however, frowned.

“Is that what you think I’m afraid of?” he asked her, and he sounded genuinely perplexed, even perhaps a little insulted. “That R— Gold would behave inappropriately toward you?”

“No, but…” she frowned and reached out to place a hand onto Jefferson’s arm as he braced himself against the steering wheel. “Jefferson, what’s going on?”

“I have known Gold for… longer than most people can remember,” he said, he words pushing through clenched teeth, “And he might be a bit of an idiot sometimes, a little _driven_ , but I have _never_ known him to behave in the way you’re insinuating.”

“All right,” she said, suddenly overly cautious. She knew Jefferson to be prone to mood swings sometimes, but she had never seen him become so agitated so quickly.

“I simply meant,” he ran a hand through his hair, and pulled the car into the side of the road outside of Belle’s home, “that if things get too intense for you; feelings you can’t handle—”

“I don’t really think that’s likely,” Belle said gently, “I hardly _know_ the man.”

“Yes, Belle,” he said, suddenly slamming both hand, palms open, against the wheel, “you _do!_ ”

He growled then, a sound of dismay and leaned forward to hide his face against the circle of the steering wheel. Belle blinked, not quite sure what she should do, or where she should even _put_ herself. Should she try and get out of the car?

A strangled sound halted her indecisive movement, almost a sob muffled by Jefferson’s shoulder that was shielding his face.

“Jefferson?” she said tentatively, and reached out to lay gentle fingers onto the back of his neck, as best she could with the scarf he habitually wore anyway, and she thought she heard words. Thinking he might be answering her soft query, she leaned closer to hear what he was saying, her hand slipping to his shoulder.

“I hate this town. I hate this town. I hate this town…” over and over, like a chant, distressed and becoming more so with each repetition.

“Jefferson…” she repeated gently. “Jefferson, look at me.” No response; not to any of her numerous attempts to calm him, and so with a hand once more on the back of his neck, not truly knowing where it came from, she tried, “Hatter?”

He sat bolt upright then, his protestations ceasing in an instant, though his body still heaved with emotion, and he turned reddened, tear filled eyes her way.

“Why did you call me that?” he demanded, breathless. Then, when she didn’t answer right away, he reached out to almost painfully grasp her arm that was still half way between them from where she snatched her fingers from his skin at his sudden movement. He repeated his question, his tone more desperate, “Why did you _call_ me that?”

“I…” she began, and faltered. Why had she? “I don’t… I don’t know.” She tried and tried to think why she might have called him by such a name. She couldn’t think of a reason, not at once. All she could see was the image of him, with a tall, black top hat, dangling from his hand, until… “You… your license plate?”

He seemed to deflate and released her. “Of course,” he said, calm at once, and offered a sheepish, “I’m sorry. I’m a fool.”

“You are _not_ ,” she said then, aiming for a little levity to make them both feel better. “You’re just a little—”

“Insane?” he interjected.

“ _Highly_ strung,” she spoke over the top of him. “And yes. I promise to call you if anything about my afternoon tea with Mister Gold is too much for me to handle.”

“Good,” he said with a genuine smile, and then covered her hand, which now rested atop her leg, with one of his own. A gesture of comfort, and solidarity, she knew.

* * *

Gold dressed with especial care that Friday morning, though in his mind he still wondered at what had prompted him to offer the use of the book to Belle, a woman about whom he knew so little, and yet… the more he thought about her, the more he was convinced that he knew her. Not in Storybrooke, and not _now_ , but… before, and some place else - which, of course, made no sense to him, because he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had _always_ lived in Storybrooke.

There were hours before he would take his lunch break and drive to the address that Belle had given to him so that he could collect her for their afternoon tea at Granny’s. He could think of a quieter location for their meetings, but as he knew just the way tongues were wont to wag in their quiet town, Jefferson had been wise to suggest they meet there, at least at first.

Now he came to think of it, there was something uncannily familiar about Jefferson too. He knew the man only in passing, but it was… _more_ than that. Something important.

He was certain there was something he was forgetting. … _Forgetting_ …

Unconsciously, almost as though moving of its own volition, his hand reached into the drawer of the dresser, beneath a sheaf of envelopes that were stacked there on top of couple of still packaged shirts. Beneath the shirts even, his hand reached and pulled out a soft, silk wrapped bundle.

In spite of himself and the shiver that passed over his spine as he did, he brought the bundle to a space on top of the dresser, where he unfastened the hand woven cord that held the package closed and unwrapped the silk from around its cargo.

There, in black and the deepest purple, made in the most delicate of threads were the makings of an ornately crocheted circle, with patterns of lace within the seemingly random pass of black and purple threads that held the barest hint of gold in places. The piece was incomplete, and old - made far longer ago than he could remember - in fact he couldn’t remember having made it at all, and yet, he knew he had. He knew that he had one, final round to complete, the capstone as he remember the pattern named it. Then, it could be mounted into a circular frame, its lower edge decorated with beads and feathers; “Knots to keep the magic in,” the book had said.

Whispers filled his mind, drawing him, drawing his eyes, making him imagine movement where the threads were acquiescent and still.

Without another glance or thought he quickly folded the circle, dropped it onto the silk wrapping and fastened it again. The whispers ceased abruptly.

No.

He could never think to complete the project… never! He didn’t even know what possessed him to look at the thing again. He hurriedly pushed the package back into its place, relaxing once his hand was no longer in contact with the it.

 _Out of sight, out of mind_ , a playful voice sang through his head. He slammed the drawer shut, and turned away from it, straightening his tie in the full length mirror, and then left the bedroom, heading for the Craft Shop, where he would spend the intervening hours until he met with Belle. He might even bring her a gift, he thought with a smile as he left the house. The previous moments seemed utterly forgotten.

* * *

Belle smiled and took one more look around the front room of her little cottage. It had been an task, and a none too easy one, to straighten up the mess that had gathered around her while she’d been stuck on crutches and unable to do much. It would do. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do.

She wasn’t even sure that Mister Gold would come inside, but if he _did_ , she was certain he would understand. On one final impulse, she grasped the latest crochet project she had been working on, and pushed it into her ample purse so that she could show Mister Gold what she had made, and how she was progressing. Her progress had been all thanks to his book, after all.

She glanced around to where the book sat on the coffee table, still open to the pattern she had been reading that morning, the same one that had captured her attention the previous evening; a beautiful and intricate dream catcher that she couldn’t possibly imagine it were possible to crochet. Perhaps she would ask Mister Gold about it.

Not right away of course. For some reason, it seemed way too soon to be discussing such patterns. She wanted to though. She wanted to discuss so much with him.

As if she had conjured him with her very thoughts, a knock sounded at the door, and Belle jumped, before calling out, “Come in, it’s open.”

A few moments after, the tap of Mister Gold’s cane in the doorway announced his presence and Belle maneuvered herself in a turn on her crutches to see him better.

“Mister Gold,” she said with a smile of greeting. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you, Miss French,” he said, returning her smile. “And good to see you looking so hale.”

“I’m getting there,” she nodded, and leaned down to pick up her purse from the couch.

“Allow me,” Gold said as he beat her to it. “I imagine it’s not easy managing both crutches and a purse.”

“Thank you,” she said, sincerely touched by both his gentlemanly gesture, and the fact that he was not so afraid for his masculinity as to feel threatened by carrying a purse. “I’m sure it will be much easier when I can get rid of them. My legs feel stronger already.”

Gold smiled, and stepped back into the hallway to allow her to precede him, checking with her first that she had her keys before flipping the lock on the door and pulling it closed behind them.

“I’m glad to hear you’re doing well,” he said as he helped her to get settled into the car. “Recovering from an injury is never easy, and I imagine so much more difficult the longer one is off one’s feet.”

“You speak from experience,” she observed as he climbed into the driver’s side of the car once she was safely buckled in, and she nodded to his leg. “May I ask?”

“You’re right,” he said and then in answer to the second part of her question, “Shattered the lower part of my leg in several places in an attempt to save my son.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured as they pulled away.

“It was many years ago now,” he said, his tone reassuring. “And my boy is well… successful, so it was all worth it.”

She smiled, “I’m glad to hear it.”

“And you, Miss French,” he said, echoing her words. “If I may ask?”

“Of course,” she said, “Though, I fear I can’t tell you much. “One moment I was driving, and then the next,” she shrugged. “I don’t remember much else. It was along the road leading to the town line, that much I know.”

“The same accident as the one that injured John Doe then,” Gold surmised. “A nasty collision by all accounts.”

“So I’m told,” she said. “The Sheriff said the report cited mechanical failure on his vehicle, so neither of us will be charged with anything, but still, not knowing what happened is wonderful fodder for nightmares.”

She hadn’t meant to mention that, and blushed the moment the words left her lips. Since her release from the hospital she had woken almost nightly from some kind of restlessness or another; not always nightmares, but always some kind of strange dream. She saw Gold frown in return, but he didn’t say anything more, because they had arrived at Granny’s Diner, where they would be sharing their first afternoon tea, and their conversation was momentarily halted.

* * *

If Granny was surprised to see Gold coming in to the diner with a young lady, she said nothing, and the waitress - her own grand daughter no less - was more than polite as she took their order.

“This is the first time I’ve really gotten out,” Belle told him.

He placed his hand over his heart and answered, “Then I’m doubly honored to be the one to accompany you.”

She blushed a delightful and delicate shade of pink, and it quickened his breath to see it. It had been many years since he had made a beautiful woman blush - at least for these kind of reasons rather than ridicule and embarrassment - and he realized then, or perhaps more accurately admitted it to himself, that he wanted to explore where such blushes might lead with Miss French.

He watched as she took a sip of the tea she had ordered, and nudged the plate of assorted confections closer to her as she did. Then to change the subject, not wanting her to feel awkward or uncomfortable, asked, “How are you getting on with your crochet projects?”

Belle’s answering smile was like a light coming on, warming his heart and chasing away memories he didn’t even realize he was carrying since he had taken out the crocheted project of his own from its hiding place in the dresser drawer.

“Oh, I’m enjoying it so much,” Belle said.

Gold smiled. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said, “What project are you working on?”

“The shawl, remember,” she answered, her excitement bubbling over, “the one we selected that beautiful green yarn for?”

“I remember,” he answered with a nod. “I expressed some concerns, as I recall, at tackling cabling so soon after picking up the craft again.”

She chuckled then. “Yes… and you were right,” she said, “At least at first. But the book… oh the book, Mister Gold, it’s been so helpful, and it helped me to get past those difficulties as well. The diagrams are so… detailed.”

“I agree, Miss French,” he said. “They helped me through many a difficult pattern.”

“Would you like to see?” she asked, and reached down to her bag without waiting for his answer, and pulled out the beginnings of the shawl she had been making.

He took it carefully, almost reverently, running his fingertips over the stitching, reveling in its carefully executed twining of yarn within each stitch.

“It’s beautiful, Miss French,” he said, raising his eyes to hers. “Perfect. I’m certain it will keep you very warm, come winter.”

He watched the color come to her face again, a bright scarlet, almost as though his words had been about something else. Then he smiled in what he hoped would be a reassuring way, breaking eye contact to take another sip of his tea. When he looked back at her, the color had faded somewhat from her cheeks.

“Do you have a project you are working on, currently?” she asked, her expression a picture of innocence.

The instant roiling inside of his chest was almost breathtaking. He felt suddenly like a faker, a kind of social, crafting monster who lived vicariously on the beauty of others’ projects. He knew it was more complex than that, but.. Still… how could he ever explain the truth about the project that had frightened him to within an inch of his life.

“No,” he said sadly, “No, I…” he took a breath. “I haven’t worked on a project in many many years… aside from spinning, of course. I find that spinning… calms me.” _Keeps all the dark thoughts at bay._

“I’ve never tried it,” Belle said. “Is it difficult?”

He schooled his expression to one that went along with his shrug. “Like anything else, I suppose. Once you get the hang of it, it’s easy.”

* * *

The rest of the afternoon passed all too quickly even though it stretched into evening, and by the time they pulled up outside of Belle little cottage, she was almost loathe to tell him goodbye.

“Same time next week?” he asked softly.

“Yes please,” she smiled warmly, and watched his eyes soften in response. Then, as if he had just remembered something, he held up a hand and reached behind the seat, straightening up with a small package in his hands. “I’d like you to accept this,” he said. “A small gift, to say ‘thank you’ for humoring a lonely old man.”

“You’re hardly that,” she said with a frown, but she felt her heart thump in response to his giving of a gift. “Certainly not old!”

“But definitely lonely,” he nodded, with a strange half smile on his face as he held the small package out to her again. “Please, it’s just a small token of our friendship.”

“Thank you.” She reached out and took the package from his hand, and made a show of shaking it in her hand, as though it were Christmas. He chuckled as she asked, “Should I open it now?”

“When you get inside,” he advised, and she nodded, feeling truly touched as she tucked the package into her bag. She was about to thank him again when he got out of the car and came around to her side to help her out of the car and to her door.

“I had a wonderful time today,” she told him as he opened the front door for her and handed her the keys.

“As did I,” he said, “It has been a beautiful afternoon… with the best of company.”

His words, and the warmth in his voice made her blush a little, and she hesitated for a moment before opening her mouth, meaning to ask him in, but something in his expression made her stop - change her mind. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him to come inside, to stay longer, because really, she did, just that she felt that it was too soon, that propriety would dictate that they wait a little more before such an intimate moment as sharing a cup of tea at her house.

“Until next week then,” she said softly, trying not to sound in any way disappointed.

“Of course,” he answered, and with a twinkle in his eye added, “And if, in the meantime, you need more yarn or anything else…”

“I know where to find you,” she finished with a smile, and then with a little twitch of the package she carried added, “And… thank you for the gift.”

His answering smile felt like a sunrise, “I hope you enjoy it,” he said, then with a tip of his imaginary hat, he turned and walked away.

Belle watched him for a moment, before continuing to make her way inside, closing, but not locking the door behind her in case either Ruby or Jefferson came to check on her after her afternoon outing. It would save her having to struggle with the crutches to get up again. The quicker she was off the damn things, the better as far as she was concerned.

After making her way to the living room, she practically fell, rather than sat, down onto the couch, letting the crutches fall where they might, and then turned her attention to the gift Mister Gold had given to her. Carefully, she unwrapped the box, setting aside the paper, before she separated the two halves of cardboard that made up the top and bottom of the box.

Inside, she saw, there was a spool of the most delicate gold colored thread she could ever have imagined. It twinkled and shone in the light of the setting sun as though it were truly _made_ of gold. Beside the thread was a single crochet hook, with a tiny head. She couldn’t ever remember having seen one so small, so fine.

Seeing the two together made her glance over to where the book lay on the coffee table, still open to the page that began the pattern by which one made the ornate dream catchers she had seen drawn on the previous page.

Did he _know_ this was what she wanted to make - almost longed to make as though it were a physical ache?

She closed her eyes, and brought to mind, from memory, the words that she had read several times the previous night, and once before she left the house to meet with Gold.

_The center of your work will be made in a thread that symbolizes what others, perhaps someone special to you, thinks you are._

* * *

Gold did not go home after his afternoon tea with Miss French.

He felt unsettled, not by the date - though he hesitated to use the word - but by the events that occurred _before_ he went to collect her. It had been _years_ since he last handled his dream catcher, and he had put it away for a reason. He had put it away incomplete for a _good_ reason - of _that_ he was certain.

And yet…

The gift he had given to Miss French was _exactly_ what she would need to begin a dream catcher of her own, though in terms of the pattern in the book, ‘Dream Catcher’ was completely misleading. It was more of a memory catcher, something that claimed to be able to catch the threads of forgotten memory, and weave them back into being, a kind of sympathetic, folk magic of sorts.

Ordinarily a practical man, Gold did not believe in superstition and magic, but in this instance he could not deny its existence, and nor did he like what it had revealed to him; _of_ him. If was almost as if he were another person. Someone much darker than he.

So, instead of going home, he drove to the store, to his wheel, where he might sit and spin, and steady his mind against the temptation, against the whispers that he _still_ heard in his head. It was as though, having unwrapped his work, even for a moment, he had released some kind of demon to stalk him, some kind of curse to hound him, and turn him into a beast.

_Coward!_

Was he a coward?

_All these years waiting and wanting… longing and lonely, and for what? Why?_

He _was_ lonely, that was the truth of it well enough. But did that make him somehow less? Wasn’t everyone, at some point in their life, lonely - in need of human company? A like mind? A light?

 _A flicker of light in an ocean of darkness, and you let it go. You let_ her _go… lost it… lost her… lost…_

…in the past.

It was a confusing jumble of images and faces, sensations and emotions that were all there in his head, squeezing his heart almost painfully in his chest. _…she needs… a home?_ Words and phrases, never names popped in and out of his mind. _…skin the children that I hunt…_ He shuddered. Surely not.

Backwards, he felt like he was falling backwards as he tried to cross the shop to the wheel, lurching as though he were drunk.

 _…in three days. They’ll come for me in three days…_ Images of destruction surrounded him, the feeling of fear clenched in his belly. _…choice…?_ A feeling of an inescapable fate. _…the only choice I have…_ But then hope in the shape of a beggar man’s face. _…is which corner to hide in…_

“No,” he pushed it all away as he reached the wheel, lowered himself to the long stool behind it and all but snatched up the wool that was waiting to be spun, that was just as he left it, and set the wheel to turning with an almost desperate push of his free hand. The whispers began to fade and the wheel started to turn, as the carded wool in his hand stretched and twisted with his movements that fell into harmony with the wheel, as he became _one_ with the wheel, and the thread, and the yarn…

* * *

Every time she caught sight of it, Belle stared at the thread, and the hook as though she couldn’t take her eyes away from it. She longed to pick up the fine tipped crochet hook and begin the first few rounds of the dream catcher that she wanted to make. It would be all right, surely it would. There couldn’t be any stitches in so complex that she couldn’t work them out, couldn’t understand how they were made.

Curiosity got the better of her, and she reached out to the book to bring it closer to her so that she could read.

“Chain four,” she read the pattern out aloud to herself, “and join with a slip stitch to form a ring.”

_…all you need do is begin…_

Was the thought hers? The words she heard In her head were enticing, playful, like a song, rising and falling in intonation with each word.

“Round one, right side, chain three,” still reading aloud, her eye, though fixed to the page seemed to blur, and as though seeing herself with hook and thread in her hands, she saw the stitches forming before her as she spoke. “Counts as a double crochet, work eleven more and join with a slip stitch to the top of the beginning chain three.”

_…every thought… every memory… could be yours. Should be yours…_

Even her words became blurred, slurred as they came from her lips, her eyes drifted closed and in her mind she watched herself begin the next round.

“Chain two… and double crochet into the same stitch… counts as cluster.”

_…stolen from you…_

Her head lolled onto her chest, as in her mind her eyes and hands moved from pattern to the thread and hook in her hands… only looking up after a moment to find herself in a place far removed from her cottage living room, a strange place… a large hall in what looked like a castle. A roaring fire to one side, and a strange little, leather clad form to the other… spinning at a wheel.

“Odd…” she whispered, dreamily.

It was as the thoughts came to her, a jumble of images and feelings she couldn’t make any sense of, that the first hint of sinister began; a sound like thunder in her mind and a deep purple wave, mingled with black, a maelstrom began to sweep toward her, nipping at the images one by one, tearing away feelings that were at once as familiar as they were strange.

She gasped, tried to cry out, and tried to back away, but couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, enough to form words or even the longed for cry for help.

“Hey!” The sharp sound of a voice cut through the thunder. “Hey, Belle… wake up, it’s okay…”

She felt hands on her arms, warm hands chasing away the chill, not quite shaking her, but drawing her away from the back of the couch. She took another breath and opened her eyes, turning her head in the same moment toward the voice reassuring her that she was all right, to find herself staring into Jefferson’s concerned face.

“What the hell?” he asked her softer than the words he spoke would imply. “Here, let’s move this out of the way.” He picked up the large book from her lap and set it down on the coffee table, before moving to sit beside her on the couch. “I came to check on you after your date with Gold, and I find you thrashing on the couch. What gives?”

Belle took another breath and let it out as a shaky laugh. “Guess I was more tired than I thought after my adventure into town,” she said. “I sat down to look at the book, and must have fallen asleep.”

“One hell of a dream then…?” he told her, not exactly asked.

“Weird,” she said. “I was in a castle, and there was a wheel, like Gold’s, only…” she shrugged, the memory of the dream already fading fast. “And then all this black and purple… stuff… I dunno.” She huffed out a laugh again, “No cheese before bed for me, eh?”

The frown did not leave Jefferson’s face. In fact, if anything it deepened.

“Have you eaten anything?” he asked.

“Only pastries, with the tea at Granny’s,” she said, and he nodded.

“Let me make you some dinner,” he said. “Remember what Whale said. You have to eat.”

Belle made a face. “And if I’m not hungry?”

“You still have to eat,” he said, and gave her a grin. “Come on, Belle, you want to get rid of these things, right?” He kicked the crutches as he spoke.

“Of course I do,” she said, then looking at his fixed expression added, “All right, you can cook for me, but at least let me _help_ you.”

“What,” he teased, “Afraid my cooking’s going to poison you?”

* * *

He had no idea how long he had been spinning because he’d lost himself in the tug of the yarn and the turning of the wheel, but when the bell over the shop door tinkled it’s merry little dance, Gold practically fell from the stool, he jumped so violently.

That was nothing when compared to the snarling challenge that came from his visitor, even as he tried to say, “I’m sorry, we’re closed.”

“What did you _do_ to her?” 

He got up from the stool and reached for his cane, frowning as he recognized the man from before, one of Belle’s friends.

“Jefferson?” he asked, confused.

“You heard me,” Jefferson growled. “What did you _do_?”

“I’m sorry,” he almost laughed the words it was such a ridiculous situation to be in. “I… I… I don’t understand.”

“Don’t play games with me, Gold!” he said. “Do you _know_? Do you remember?”

“Remember what?” Gold was thoroughly confused. He could see that Jefferson was upset, and somewhere in the back of his mind the agitation was familiar, and it made Gold uncomfortable, and that made him snap. “I’m sorry, Jefferson, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I can tell you’re upset but—”

“Are. You. Awake!” Gold backed up as Jefferson stepped closer, raising his hands as if he were going to grab him by the lapels; tear him limb from limb… something that Gold definitely wouldn’t enjoy.

After the first moment of reaction, his fear dissolved into anger, and his face twisted into a snarl and through gritted teeth he warned, “I think perhaps you’d better leave… _before_ I’m forced to defend myself.”

As he spoke, he tossed his cane up so that he could catch it by the shaft, freeing the heavy, metal handle to be used as a weapon. Again, however, confusion grabbed a hold of his temper and reigned it back inside as, rather than react with increased aggression, or even self defense, Jefferson simply… deflated.

“You really don’t know, do you?” Jefferson said, crestfallen. He took a step forwards, hands reaching out toward Gold again, this time in near supplication. “Gold, please—”

Even with the shift in attitude, Gold was taking no chances, and raised his cane again, stopping both Jefferson’s forward motion and his words.

“I don’t know what you think I know… dearie, but I strongly suggest, _again_ , that you leave before I take matters into my own hands, and…”

He trailed off, hearing the whispers again, picking out words, emotion funneling into him, swirling like a lava lamp in double time, and the world faded.

_Yes… that’s right… remember. Know who you are… not your enemy… hear him._

Gold staggered, his bad ankle turning beneath him without the support of the cane, and just as he would have fallen he felt the clasp of hands around his arms, then an arm around his waist, as Jefferson took the cane from his hand, grounded it and guided his hand to the handle of it before leaning him against the counter.

The whispers faded and the world drew back into focus in time for him to see Jefferson returning to his side with the chair from behind the counter.

“Here,” the other man said, “sit.”

“I’m sorry,” Gold said as he allowed Jefferson to ease him into the chair. “I don’t… well, I don’t at all understand.”

Jefferson shook his head, murmuring, Gold surmised, mostly to himself. “It’s all right. It’s the curse.”

Gold began to chuckle, but the laughter died in his throat almost before it began. Ordinarily he would have scoffed; mocked anyone who would mention such thing. Magic and curses were for children and fairy tales, but since his experiences with the dream catcher, and the whispers, and the feeling of ‘otherness’ that he could not shake…

He looked down at his hands, _his_ hands, which had worked the threads, and made the stitches of the crafted dream catcher that had opened all of this disquiet in his mind. So, why did he have no memory of making it. Why, when he had looked at it earlier that day, had he felt as though he had made it _lifetimes_ ago?

He looked up to find Jefferson staring at him, as though he either wanted to ask him a question, or feared that he was about to keel over at any moment. If he were honest, he wasn’t certain that he wouldn’t.

“Were we once…” he began slowly, frowning as though it pained him to even think the question, let alone to voice it, “…friends?”

“We… knew each other,” Jefferson answered, “Once upon a time.”

“Were we close?” Gold pressed. He’d had so few friends in his life, people he could claim to know, and who knew him. Jefferson sighed, pursing his lips into a tight line as if he were reluctant to answer. So Gold gave a tired verbal nudge, “It’s all right. You can tell me. I _want_ to know.”

“Knowing is one thing,” Jefferson argued. “Believing is quite another.”

Gold frowned, then said, “After everything that’s happened to me today, hearing one more strange thing isn’t going to make a difference.”

“A minute ago you were ready to beat me senseless with that cane of yours,” Jefferson said, folding his arms and leaning against the counter next to where Gold was sitting. “You’ll forgive me if I’m… cautious,” he added.

“Point well made,” Gold said. “Tell me just one thing then?”

“What’s that?”

“Did this…? When we knew one another - before - did we know Belle as well?”

Instead of an answer, Jefferson pushed himself to his full height again and started toward the door as he said, “Take care of her, Gold.”

“Wait!” Gold called out as the bell tinkled, but Jefferson didn’t wait and all too soon the door swung closed behind him.

* * *

Belle woke with a yawn the following morning. It had been a very long night full of strange and disturbing dreams. She kept dreaming of the castle, and the strange figure at the wheel, and in the last she was certain that he had Gold’s face, but at the same time not. It made no sense, especially since, in the dream, it had been this figure who had given her the thread that Gold had given to her as a gift.

All through breakfast she felt herself drawn to the thread, and the hook, and the book… always the book. She didn’t touch any of them, of course, not until she was finished and settled in the lounge did she even contemplate putting her hands onto any of them.

It was the thread that first demanded her attention. She picked up the small skein, and let some of the thread run through her fingers. It was soft, but at the same time, tiny, almost imperceptible spots felt almost metallic. The thought occurred to her that it was impossible to tell whether the shining parts of the thread were truly made of…

_”Why do you spin so much?” Belle looked down from the top of her ladder, and at her question, Rumplestiltskin stopped his work. “Sorry,” she said, “It’s just… you’ve spun straw in more gold than you could ever spend.”_

_“I like to watch the wheel,” he mused. “Helps me forget.”_

…Gold.

“Forget _what_?” Belle murmured, to herself. She wondered what was going on with her. Were these thoughts so important to her because she had no memories of _herself_ , her own life before waking in the hospital?

She blinked then, and dropped the thread, watching it unravel across the coffee table where it fell, and across the floor as it tumbled to the carpet. What had just happened? Was that a dream? Imagination…?

_…Remember…_

She was a firm believer that things happened for a reason. Perhaps it wasn’t just chance that led her to Gold, or led Gold to let her use his book. Perhaps there was something greater at work than just the ravings of a woman so recently awakened from a coma.

Slowly, she reached out for the ball of thread again, and began to carefully wind up the spilled strand back onto the ball again. Her mind was made up. Tomorrow she would visit Gold and ask him to help her decide what thread she should purchase for making the dream catcher. He clearly meant for her to do so, otherwise he wouldn’t have given her this beautiful thread as a gift.

Today, however, she had an evaluation with Doctor hopper, and a visit with her physical therapist. Perhaps she would even be able to get rid of the crutches.

* * *

“Tell me again.” Archie said softly, and Belle sighed watching the dust motes swirling in the shaft of light that spilled in through the window behind the doctor’s shoulder, wishing she were anywhere else. She had mentioned the dreams, mentioned the feelings and the pull, the desire to make this one item from the book that she had been given, and Doctor Hopper had latched on to is. “Belle?”

“What part?” she asked. Another sigh.

“The book. Tell me about the book.” He said.

“It’s a book of pattern,” she answered flatly, “Crochet patterns.”

“But you just described it as more than that,” he said patiently. “Do you realize that?”

Belle sighed again, and feeling defensive snapped, “What are you trying to get me to say?”

“Belle, I’m on your side here,” Archie said softly, “I’m not _trying_ to get you to say anything. It’s just that before you used words like…” he paused to check his notes, “…compulsion and need. You spoke of how you couldn’t stop looking at it… and with the thread, you felt you should—”

“It was probably all a dream,” she said, “It had been a busy day, and I was tired. For all I know I could have fallen asleep and dreamed the whole thing.”

“But that isn’t what you said,” Archie pressed softly. “Can you see why I’m concerned?”

“So just what are you saying?” Belle found herself getting irrationally angry. She knew that Doctor Hopper was only trying to help her, and what he was saying was all perfectly true. She _had_ spoken of feeling a compulsion to begin making the dream catcher; did still feel like she _had_ to make it, not just that she _could_. “That because of a few weird dreams, and crazy thoughts when I’m tired, you think I’m going insane?”

She started to gather up her things from beside her on the couch, her purse, her jacket… the damn crutches. Of course she couldn’t handle them all at the same time, so there was no chance of making a quick escape from the doctor’s office.

“Please, Belle, wait,” Archie was saying in that quietly innocuous way. “You misunderstand. That’s not what I’m saying at all.” He waited while she settled in place, though she made no effort to let go of her purse or her jacket, “All I want you to consider is this: you recently awoke from a coma after a serious injury. That’s going to affect the way you think and feel for a while.”

“Then isn’t it _normal_ to be having strange thoughts and feelings?” Belle argued.

“Well… well yes, that’s one way of looking at it.”

“So no cause for concern then,” she said, looking him square in the face for the first time in many minutes.

“I just want you to know that you can talk to me about anything that bothers you,” he said. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“Okay,” she said, unconvinced.

“I’m on your side.”

“Why is it a matter of taking sides, Doctor Hopper?” she challenged softly, “And if you are on _mine_ , who is on the other?”

“It’s a figure of speech,” Archie said. “I want you to be well.”

“I _am_ well,” she insisted.

“Good,” Archie said softly, and sat back in his seat, the room falling to silence around them both. It was Archie That broke that silence. “So, I um… you went to tea at Granny’s with Mister Gold…”

“Yes,” Belle confirmed, an eyebrow raised in question.

“How _was_ that?”

She frowned in confusion. “Well, um… it was fine?” she said. “Very pleasant, as a matter of fact. Was it supposed to have been different?”

“No, I’m glad,” Archie smiled. “Sometimes when people have been… cut off from others for a long time, they find it hard to relate. I’m glad that doesn’t seem to be the case for you.”

“Oh, not at all,” she shared the smile with him, though hers didn’t reach her eyes, and said, “Ruby and Jefferson have been great too.”

* * *

It had been a very, _very_ long day, and all Belle wanted to do was to get home, put on her pajamas, and relax. Between Doctor Hopper, and her physical therapy appointment, she was exhausted. She gave a tired smile when she saw Jefferson waiting for her in the lobby.

“Look at you!” he said by way of greeting and put his arm around her shoulders in a one armed hug from the side on which she had no crutch. “Graduated, huh?”

She couldn’t help but grin, his happiness for her was contagious. “Yep, get to carry my own purse now,” she said happily, “And maybe in another couple of weeks, I’ll be free of them both for good.”

“I’m sure you will,” he agreed. “You ready?”

She nodded, and slowly they made their way out of the door and toward the parking lot of the hospital, to where Jefferson had parked his car.

They were about to step onto the crosswalk when they were interrupted by the arrival of Mayor Mills who rather than enjoying an accidental meeting seemed to have engineered a confrontation.

“Well, well,” she mocked, “If it isn’t my little survivor and her gallant escort.”

“What do you want, Regina?” Jefferson snapped back, as though tired of her and the way she spoke to him. Belle felt his back stiffen and his gentle guiding hold on her tightened.

“It’s come to my attention that you’ve been spending quite some time with Gold.” Belle looked up, taking in the tightness in Jefferson’s jaw, the narrowing of his eyes.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” he rumbled softly, “but we’ve talked once or twice, yes.”

“Be careful, Jefferson,” Mayor Mills said, “We’ve had discussions before about you needing to decide whose side you’re on, which piper to pay.”

“As if I could forget,” he growled. “But let me remind _you_ , Madam Mayor, that you don’t own me.”

“Is that so?” Regina purred. “I beg to differ.”

Belle watched the two of them like a spectator at a tennis match, not following the conversation, but understanding well enough able to pick up the sense of threat emanating from Regina toward Jefferson. The tension remaining in his muscles, told her that even though he was giving a strong advocation for himself, he wasn’t as confident as he seemed.

“Oh, you may _think_ you have me by the short hairs,” he mocked, “But if I choose to break bread with Gold, maybe it’s _you_ who should worry.”

Regina leaned closer, stretching a little to meet him on as much of a level as she could, articulated each word she spoke with infinite care. “Stay. Away. From. Gold.”

“Come on, Belle,” With his free hand, Jefferson slowly pushed the Mayor away with one outstretched finger, gathering Belle closer to him. “Let’s get you home. You must be very tired.”

He pushed them past Regina and continued on to his car, although it seemed as though the mayor was determined to have the last word.

“He isn’t good for you, Jefferson,” she called, “Or for those you care about.”

“What is she talking about?” Belle hissed as they moved out of earshot.

“Later,” he answered, without looking at her, or saying more, all the way to the car.

* * *

Later proved to be not at all, and Belle went to bed exhausted from her day and worrying why on earth the mayor would be warning her friend to stay away from Mister Gold. He seemed to be quite a pleasant man in her experience - certainly polite and generous - but then perhaps the mayor and Gold had a disagreement between them that had soured her against him, and she was trying to turn people away from Gold. She seemed the kind of woman to do such a thing.

“When did _you_ get to be so judgmental?” she asked herself as she carefully got up from her bed and made her way to the bathroom. Ruby was coming over later and she would be able to take a bath. Perhaps she’d feel more herself when she’d had one. In the meantime breakfast would be a good idea.

The next several days fell into a similar routine. She would get up, breakfast, attempt to do the exercises the physical therapist had given her, overdo things and make herself sore and grumpy. The truth was really that she was getting stir crazy. Although Ruby would come and take her out from time to time, since their run in with the mayor, Jefferson seemed to be keeping out of her way. He seemed to have abandoned her. It was a shame, because she found his company entertaining, refreshing.

The book and the thread, and the crochet hook still called to her, especially in the evening when everything was done for the day and she was trying to relax, and the more she left it alone and focused on her regular crochet project - a scarf she was making that she meant to give to Gold for a holiday gift, when the season came - the louder its siren call. So far she was resisting, though she didn’t know why. What harm would there be, after all, in making something so beautiful?

Distracted, looking at the offending items that were still sitting in place on her coffee table, and not where she was walking, Belle caught her foot on the edge of the rug. She tried to keep her balance, but it was the weak side of her body that buckled; crumpled like a screwed up sheet of paper, and no amount of grasping or reaching for something on which to steady herself saved her from the inevitable fall.

She tumbled hard, narrowly missing the corner of the coffee table, and knocked all the wind out of herself. For several long minutes she lay there, a soft groan coming from her as the air began to fill her lungs again. She looked around and saw that her crutch had skittered out of reach, and that there was a long and bleeding graze on the side of her leg where the rough stone of the fireplace had scraped her soft skin.

“Marvelous!” she pushed herself up to a sitting position, not too hard to do, and braced her back against the side of the hearth, where she had landed, wondering what the hell she was going to do next. Her phone was on the table beside the couch, and unless she somehow managed to bring it to her by telekinesis, there was no way she would be able to call anyone for help. She tried to drag herself up by hanging on to the side of the fireplace, but after the fifth attempt that ended up with her tumbling back down onto her rump, rather gracelessly and none too gently, she decided to give that up as a bad job.

Instead, she started to try and drag herself toward the coffee table. Perhaps that would be a more suitable way to help herself get up. At least if she could shuffle around it she might be able to lever herself up onto the couch, and then slide across to where she left her phone. She decided to try it.

By the time she had half shuffled, half dragged and part way rolled herself around to the end of the coffee table, however, she felt as though she had done a whole week’s worth of physical therapy, and leaned her head against her arms to try and catch her breath.

“This is ridiculous!” she huffed to herself. Her irritation and frustration rising. She needed to stop. She needed to recenter and catch a hold of herself before she tried again. She took a deep breath, and then raised her hands from her arms again, and her gaze fell immediately on the ball of thread, the gold flecks within it almost winking at her. Well, she couldn’t reach anything else to distract herself while she regained her strength, so where would be the harm?

Stretching out her hand, she caught up the ball of thread, and the hook, and managed to reach well enough to turn the pages of the book to the right place, and after making a slip knot in the end of the thread, she began, slowly and carefully to make each chain.

* * *

It was late when Gold left the store for the evening. He’d been doing inventory, and it was always a chore. Dull and time consuming, it was the type of job that sucked you in, and spat you out again much later when it had sucked all the life out of you, and left you bleary eyed and irritable.

Getting into his car was almost a delight, and he promised himself a long, hot shower, followed by an even hotter cup of tea, a shot of whiskey, and the soft comforts of his his own bed, his own _sheets_ around him as he slept.

He drove along what had become his customary route home. It was the longer way around, but it was the one that took him past Miss French’s home. It was still two days until Friday that week, and he was looking forward to their weekly… well he hesitated to call it a date, but equally so the hesitation was there in naming it an ‘arrangement’ either. In the end he simply called it what it was: their weekly cup of tea in Granny’s where they would talk crafts and of their week, and sometimes even reveal little tidbits of information about themselves and their likes and dislikes. So, perhaps it was a date after all. Just not the most romantic of dates.

If he were honest with himself, that disappointed him a little. The past few weeks had been been a joy - current day excepted - and the light at the center of it had been Miss French. She deserved more than a simple cup of tea in the local diner, and with his feelings changing, as they had been, he wanted to be the one to give it to her. He decided then and there, turning off of Main Street and onto fifth avenue, that he was going to ask her to come out with him on a _proper_ date, where he would spoil, and wine and dine her.

If she accepted, of course.

As he reached the end of Fifth, he frowned. There were still lights in the front window of Miss French’s home, and that was unusual. In all the weeks that he had been driving this way, at this late hour, the lights had been out, or if there was a light at all, it spilled at the side of the building, where he knew - from the times he had collected her for their tea dates - her bedroom was.

On the days he saw lights still on in _that_ room, he smiled and pictured her propped up in her bed, reading. He knew she loved to read. Now though, light in the front room made him brake hard. What if there were something wrong? The decision of course was an easy one to make, and turning in his seat, he reversed along the street until he could pull in to the driveway, then he turned off the engine, and grabbing his cane, stepped out of the car.

For barely a moment he second guessed himself, and then shaking off his doubts, he strode to the door as fast as his limp would allow and tapped softly.

At first there was no answer, so he tapped again, and from within a soft invitation to enter finally reached his ears. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

“Miss French?” he called out.

“Mister Gold,” she answered, her voice coming from the lit room. “Thank goodness.”

His heart lurched at her words, and he pushed open the door to the front room, his eyes instantly going to the couch, but she was not where he expected. Instead, he saw her sitting on the floor, close beside the coffee table. A quick glance around let him speculate what had happened; the curl in the edge of the carpet, the single crutch lying far out of reach of where Miss French leaned against the coffee table… the cell phone on the end table beside the couch.

He hurried over to her side and ignoring the stiffness in his ankle, knelt down beside her.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Had a bit of a fall,” she confirmed his suspicions, “then couldn’t get up.”

“Are you hurt?”

She shrugged. “My pride mostly,” she said, then laughed humorlessly as she added, “Funny, I thought that was supposed to come _before_ a fall, not after one.”

Gold smiled, and breathed out a chuckle down his nose. “Come on,” he said. “Allow me to help you onto the couch at least.”

“Thank you,” she said, and did not resist when he wrapped an arm around her back, tucking his hand beneath her arm, and with a good deal of effort, levered them both up before supporting her as they moved to the couch and she all but fell into it, almost pulling him down with her. It was not as graceful as he had hoped, but at least she was no longer on the floor.

“How long have you been there,” he asked, running his eyes over her as if he could spot any hurts she might have taken, and becoming alarmed when she saw the graze on the side of her calf.

“I don’t really know,” she said, “A while.”

Gold sighed, wishing he had left the shop earlier, but then, if he had, there would have been nothing odd about seeing a light in the front window of Miss French’s home.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Hardly your fault,” she told him, a faint smile coming to grace her lips. “I’m just glad you came along.” She frowned then as though she had thought of something, and sure enough the soft accusation fell from her lips as a question. “Why _did_ you stop by, Mister Gold?”

He began to wonder how he might obfuscate in order to maintain his innocence, and perpetuate her ignorance of his growing feelings toward her, but in the end found himself unable to lie to her.

“I… altered my route home so that I can pass by, just to check on you. I know you have Miss Lucas, and Jefferson for help, but—”

She blushed, and as if the warmth of her cheeks settled inside of him, he felt a growing heat in his core as she interrupted, “Well, I’m glad of it, Mister Gold,” she said.

He offered her a smile and said, “My pleasure.” Then, with a breath he said, “Why don’t I make us some tea, and… if you’ll allow it, I can see to the graze on your leg.”

She turned her leg a little as if to investigate, and winced at the movement. She nodded.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” he asked.

“In the third drawer along in the kitchen,” she told him, her blush renewing, “but you don’t have to, I—”

“It’s no trouble,” he assured her softly. “It should be tended to.”

She looked down at her hands, as if she were embarrassed and unable to meet his eyes as she said, “All right, thank you.” Then added, “And tea would be lovely too. There are cookies in the jar on the counter too.”

“Tea and cookies it is,” he said, before excusing himself to go into the kitchen to set the kettle to boil the water, and to find the first aid kit. It didn’t take him long to fill the kettle and prepare the tea pot, nor to find the first aid kit, exactly where she had said it would be, and soon enough he was carrying a tray with the tea and cookies, and carrying the first aid kit under his arm.

“Here we are,” he said as he entered the living room, and she looked up at him, a grateful smile on her face. “Tea and cookies. It will need a moment to brew.”

“This really is good of you,” she said softly.

“Not at all,” he answered, setting the tray down on the coffee table, and the first aid kit on the couch beside where she sat, then he pulled up an ottoman style foot stool closer to the couch. “May I?” he asked, indicating her leg.

She nodded, and he noticed she swallowed a little, so with what he hoped was a teasing tone in his voice he said, “I promise to be gentle.”

She blushed again, and chuckled softly. “And I will try to be brave,” she said.

Carefully, he lowered himself to the foot stool, and reached out to lift her injured leg to rest her foot against his thigh. Her feet were bare and tiny, and quite chilled, he noted even through the fabric of his pants. He watched as she bit her lip when he cupped her foot in the warmth of his hands for a moment, before finally reaching for the first aid kit, and an antiseptic wipe from within.

“I’m afraid this is going to sting,” he told her. His voice was low, and a little hoarse.

She swallowed, and nodded, barely whispering. “It’s all right.”

Carefully he began to clean the graze on the side of her leg with the wipe, pausing as she hissed, before continuing at the shake of her head. Once he was satisfied the graze was clean he reached for some gauze and tape so he could cover the wound once the antiseptic had dried off a little, once again cupping her cold toes in the warmth of his hand while they waited.

He almost felt the air around them thicken in the moment, and she looked up, a little shyly to meet his eyes. She did not speak, but he thought he saw so much in her eyes in that moment, feelings that echoed his own - though he worried that was just his own hope making him see something that was not there.

“Miss French…” he began, but stopped when she shook her head.

“I think by now we should be on first name terms,” she said.

“Belle,” he corrected, meaning to go on and make the invitation he had been thinking of as he was driving, but she interrupted softly.

“The problem with that, Mister Gold, is that I don’t know—”

“Cordell,” he said softly.

“Cordell,” she echoed, and he felt as though his name sounded almost like music for the first time in his life. “I like it.”

“Thank you,” he answered, and distracted from his original purpose, dressed the graze carefully, before giving her another smile.

“There,” he said, shaking his head as she thanked him again. Then he lifted her foot carefully from his thigh, and slipped from beneath it, to set it down carefully on the foot stool. He moved to sit beside her on the couch.

“I wanted to ask you something,” she said as he began to pour the tea. He paused and glanced over at her, nodding once to let her know she should ask. “Well,” she continued. “I used the thread you gave me to begin to make the dream catcher from the book.”

He tried not to stiffen as she gestured toward the center-piece of the work that sat atop the open book. He finished pouring the tea, moving to set hers on the end table where she could reach it, before returning to his place beside her on the couch.

“Yes?” he said cautiously, and she leaned forward to pick up the piece and handed it to him. As he took it from her hand a flash of heat pulsed up his arm, as though he had been jolted by an electric shock. He took a breath, dismissing the feeling as his imagination, and began to carefully examine her crochet; each stitch and space in perfect alignment. “This is excellent work,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said and color flushed her cheek as she continued, “but I was wondering… would you help me to choose which threads I should use for the rest of the work?”

He contemplated lying; endangering the growing closeness between them by refusing her outright, but in the end he could do neither. He knew he had to be completely honest.

“The thing is, Miss— Belle,” he said quietly, looking not at her, but out into some imaginary, distant time and space. “The _tradition_ is that, besides the middle section, the thread for the rest of the project should be spun by the maker.”

Belle frowned at him. “It doesn’t say so in the book,” she said.

“Not with the pattern, no,” he confirmed, then nodded toward the book. “May I?”

Belle gave him a crooked smile. “You don’t have to ask,” she said. “The book is yours, after all.”

He shook his head and said, “The book belonged to…” he trailed off, shaking his head with a frown. “I was merely its caretaker,” he amended, unable to quite remember who the book actually belonged to. It bothered him. “Anyway, there is a section at the back of the book that is more of a… journal, if you would, than a book of patterns.”

As he spoke, he carefully opened the book to the section in question and began, equally as carefully, to leaf through the pages, scanning each until he found the entry he was looking for. When he found it, he carefully set the book into Belle’s lap, and watched as she scanned the words on the page.

He recalled them perfectly.

_I still have had no joy in capturing the memories as I work. The thread does not seem able to hold fast to them, lacking in magic, or perhaps true intent? I will confess, my mind does wander._

Belle looked up at him from the words on the page.

“Magic?” she asked, “Like… ‘abracadabra’ or sympathetic magic, you know… old wives remedies and such?”

“The latter. Focus and intent - the psychology of it. I have never been one to believe in superstition and magic in that way, but… not for nothing did the native peoples of this land weave such thing to capture their thoughts and dreams… like a visual mnemonic of sorts,” he said. He nodded toward the book still in her lap, and said, “As far as the one in this book is concerned, I have—”

He stopped himself cold before he could reveal too much and after a moment, as if in thought, continued, “I have every reason to believe that the entire process is meant as a kind of… tool, a meditation to focus the mind, to recall buried memories to the fore, perhaps to settle them in their rightful place within a person’s long term memory. But I am not psychologist. Doctor Hopper would—”

“No, thank you,” she interrupted in a tone that made him frown; made him want to ask about the vehemence of her rejection of the good doctor’s help.

There was an awkward silence for a while before he said, “So, I suspect, is the spinning of the thread all part of the—”

“Will you teach me?” she asked, cutting him off, and he blinked at her, fully aware that his shock at her asking would be written clearly on his face. He had hoped that by telling her the truth of what he knew, he would discourage her from taking the project further. If it were to affect _her_ the way it did _him_ he would never forgive himself for letting her have sight of the book in the first place. She had enough to trouble her without adding nightmares and voices to the mix. “I don’t know how to spin,” she persisted, “but you do. Would you teach me… please Cordell?”

She reached out and grasped his wrist and he felt as though her gentle hold had scalded him. He looked from where she held on to him, into her eyes and saw desperation and hope… and suddenly it all made sense.

“There has to be some other way,” he said softly.

* * *

He felt like the worst kind of hypocrite.

Even after several measures of pure malt, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had in so many ways, betrayed Belle’s trust in refusing - albeit in a round-about kind of way - to help her in her quest to find herself again, to _remember_ who she is.

Full of self loathing, he mounted the stairs, feeling as though he were climbing a mountain not a simple staircase, mocking himself for the coward he was. What did he have to fear?

As he readied himself for bed, pulling on the soft cotton pants he wore for sleeping, his eyes strayed not once, but often, to the drawer in which he had hidden his incomplete dream catcher. He could not help but wonder why it was he had never finished it.

Unable to resist the silent siren of its call, he crossed to the dresser and once again took out the silk wrapped item from its hiding place. He carried it back to the bed, unwrapping it fully this time, and opening it out to its full extend.

Even he had to admit that it was a work of beauty, the swirl of purple and black thread with interwoven, hair-thin strands of gold was an art form of its own. Stretched out the entire circle was just shy of the full 34 inches that it would have been if finished, and he wondered, yet again, as he ran his eyes over the line of stitches radiating out from the center, why he had abandoned it.

The moment his fingers touched the fine, soft threads, the whispers in his mind began, soft at first but growing in volume the longer he touched them, until the sound became like a hissing snake inside his head.

“Why did I stop?” he whispered into the white noise.

 _…Why…?_ The sound echoed.

“What do you _want_?”

_…Want… you…_

“Why can’t I…”

_…Remember…_

With a growl of frustration Gold balled up the the work and tossed it into the trash can beside the bed, flicking the silk wrapping in after it. Then stalked into the bathroom to finish getting ready for bed, cleaning his teeth with a viciousness born of frustration.

By the time he climbed into bed, he had calmed, but only a little, and for a while he tossed and turned, bunching the blankets around him by his actions as though deliberately trying to swaddle himself, until finally exhausted, he plummeted into a deep sleep.

_’And all you’ll have… is an empty heart… and a chipped cup!’_

_Her last words to him before she left echoed endlessly in his empty heart. He’d been a fool. He should have told her, explained, but that would have meant letting her in, and in spite of what she believed she felt,_ he _still believed the words he’d spoken in anger. No one could_ ever _love him. No one. Not even Belle._

 _Perhaps… he sighed softly as he turned the wheel by hand, slowly, careful to make the twist of the thread he was making even, weaving magic into the thread through the touch of his hand, he had to do this. He had to be sure there would be a way - entirely in his control - that he could know himself in the new world the curse would take them to. He couldn’t trust Regina for all that he had molded her into who she was, maybe even_ because _of that._

 _No. He would finish the dream catcher, and pour into it all that he was. He would_ never _forget._

_The doors behind him opened, and he turned his head to see Regina stalking into the great hall as though she owned the Dark Castle._

_“Flimsy locks,” she said with a superior chuckle. “I have a deal to discuss. A certain… mermaid.”_

_He turned his gaze away from her to focus once again on the thread he was spinning, tuning out the sounds he heard from behind him. He felt disinclined to even register her presence, and he sagged inside as if a great weight had settled on his shoulders._

_“I’m not dealing today,” he barely murmured._

_“Are you angry with me?” she asked, a note of boredom in her tone. “What is it this time?”_

_Still not looking in her direction, still trying to concentrate on his spinning, he answered her, fighting to keep his voice steady - calm - which was not what he felt inside. Inside he seethed, he boiled; hated what he had made._

_“Your little deception failed,” he said steadily. “You'll never be more powerful than me. You can keep trying, dearie,” his voice took on a hint of warning as he finished, “but you're never gonna beat me.”_

_Regina tsked, then mocking him all but sang, “Is this about that girl I met on the road?” Still he refused to look at her, even as she let out a chuckle. Concentrate on the thread… only the thread. “What was her name? Margie? Verna?”_

_“Belle.” Her name was like a simple prayer on his lips._

_“Right.” He kept his focus, somehow managing until she said, “Well, you can rest assured I had nothing to do with that tragedy.”_

_He stopped the wheel, took his eyes off the raw material in his hand, to stare straight ahead, to steady the sudden tightness that gripped his his chest, his heart, at the word ‘tragedy.’ Then he turned his head and looked at her. She stood with her back to him, stirring the tea she had poured herself._

_Finally moving from behind the wheel and taking but two steps in her direction, he demanded, “What. Tragedy?”_

_“You don't know?” She met his eyes, and it was all that he could do to keep his breathing steady, but his eyes were wide, his nostrils flaring as he fought for breath. Regina chuckled again. “Well…” she set down the teaspoon, cradling the cup in her hands as she began her tale, stalking around the table as she did, to his growing distress. “After she got home… her fiancé had gone missing.” He refused to let his expression give away anything about what had happened - what he had_ done _to the man, his rival, and admitting that - admitting his feelings for Belle send a whole cascade of unfamiliar feelings over him, overwhelming but for his need; his_ determination _not to reveal anything to Regina._

 _“And after her stay here, her…_ association _with you, no one would want her, of course. Her father shunned her, cut her off, shut her out.”_

_Hope blossomed, sharp and painful in his heart, his insides quivering with the depth of it. The chance for redemption._

_“So she needs… a h-home,” he managed from amid the whirling._

_She almost laughed in his face, leaning toward him, the grin on her face one that delighted in another’s suffering. He had taught her well, too well, and evil had_ consumed _her even without a dark curse to help it on its way._

_“He was cruel to her,” she began, reveling in each word. “He locked her in a tower and sent in clerics to cleanse her soul with scourges and flaying. After a while, she threw herself off the tower. She died.”_

_Her final words were like an arrow to his soul, and every part of him trembled with tension, with agony. It wasn’t true. Couldn’t be… not Belle. Not his courageous, obstinate little Belle. His lips quivered, but barely, as he locked eyes with Regina and accused, “You’re lying.”_

_“Am I?” she asked, without looking away._

_He felt his resolve begin to crack, and there was no way in_ any _realm that he would allow his apprentice to see that. He raised a hand to point at her and managed evenly. “We’re done,” and with merely a thought, opened the castle doors for her to leave._

 _It was only afterward, once he was alone again and the castle warded against intrusion, wards born of his despair at the possibility that Regina may_ not _have been lying, that he allowed his emotions reign. His body shook from sobs - the one good thing in his life - his flicker of light in an ocean of darkness - gone; lost to him. What was the point, then, in completing the circle that was his failsafe, if she would not be there to greet him on the other side of the curse, where even her anger at him for putting her out because of his cowardice would be a welcome pain?_

_What was the point in creating it if she could not do the same to remember him; to be with him._

_“No,” he whispered to himself as he folded the crocheted circle filled with his memories, and the magic to release them, and wrapped it in shielding, protective silk. “I’ll find another way.”_

Gold woke with a start in a cold sweat, nausea gripping his belly, his heart clenching so badly, so tightly that for a moment he thought he might be having a heart attack. All but throwing himself across the bed, he scrabbled in the trash can, pulling out the silk and the crocheted circle, even as he mocked himself for reacting that way.

It was just a dream, wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?

He stumbled out of bed, using it for support as he hobbled across the room to where his suit jacket hung on the hanger and fumbled in the pocket, pulling out his phone. He flipped it open and searched his contacts until he saw her name, despite the lateness of the hour - or rather the early hour of the morning - he had to tell her.

If there was even the possibility of any truth in an already fading dream, he had no _right_ to deny her wishes.

As he expected it would, his call went straight to voicemail.

* * *

Belle was grateful for the attention Gold had given to the injury on her leg the following morning. It was still sore, but as she changed the dressing and put on some antiseptic cream, she saw that it was nowhere near as bad as it could have been.

Their parting, however, hadn’t been quite so welcome, and she couldn’t understand his refusal. It wasn’t as though she was asking him to do anything illegal. The request had clearly bothered him though, and after all he had done for her - coming to her aid when no one else would have done for _hours_ \- the least she could do was thank him for what he had done for her _and_ tender an apology, and such things were better done in person.

However, that left her with the conundrum of how to get to his shop.

She _still_ hadn’t heard from Jefferson, since Mayor Mills threatened him, and since he hadn’t seen fit to tell her what the threat had been about, she could only guess that there was a lot about her friend that she didn’t know. Still, as he _was_ her friend, she didn’t want to cause him problems by asking him to take her to The Gold Fleece and so instead decided she would call Ruby.

She sat at the kitchen table, eating her breakfast when she turned on her phone. It wasn’t something she would usually do. She didn’t believe in bringing phones to the table, but on this occasion, she could forgive herself; be lenient with herself. She knew Ruby had the early shift and if she didn’t get hold of her now, it would be well into the afternoon before she had an answer.

As her phone connected to the network there was an immediate vibration in her hand and the phone let out a cheerful little sound to let her know she had a voicemail. Perhaps it was Jefferson, calling to apologize to her for avoiding her, or to tell her just what was going on.

Neither was the case.

_”Miss French… Belle, it’s Cordell. I wanted to apologize for becoming so agitated and stand-offish last night. I know you’re probably sleeping by now, at least I hope you are, and that your rest is peaceful, but I wanted to call to tell you I was being completely unreasonable. If you still want to learn to spin, even for making thread for the dream catcher, I’d be more than happy to teach you. Why don’t you call by my shop after hours tomorrow - well, today now really - and we’ll make a start. No need to call, I’ll be there late anyway.”_

Belle’s smile was so wide that her cheeks ached and and if she could have, she would have danced around the kitchen with delight. Instead she made herself eat her breakfast, and given that Gold wanted her to go to the shop ‘after hours’ she decided that she would somehow get there under her own steam.

* * *

As she levered herself out of the cab, Belle felt excitement bubbling through the whole of her in spite of the falling rain. The chance to learn to spin her own thread, and then being able to work on her dream catcher was consuming her, but there was something else bubbling beneath the surface, something deeper, that had been growing for weeks, but which she had only just admitted to herself since the previous night.

She had lain awake, after Gold had gone, remembering the warmth of his hands around her toes, the gentle strength in his fingers as he had tended the scrape on the side of her leg, and the way that - as his fingers brushed her skin - her body had thrilled in a way she had never felt before, as if cold had risen goose bumps over the whole of her, and yet is was _not_ cold, but heat, low in her belly that had triggered them.

That same warm space deep in her core clenched slightly as she felt the warmth of a hand close around her arm to steady her and the fall of rain onto her head ceased beneath the pattering of droplets onto an umbrella and she heard Gold’s voice as he leaned, just enough forward that he could instruct the driver to put the ride ‘on his tab.’

“I’m glad you came,” he said then, as he turned to Belle. “Shall we go inside?”

She took his offered arm, and allowed him to lead her inside, noticing that as he closed the door behind them, he flipped the sign to ‘closed.’ He took Belle’s jacket as he led her through to the back of the shop, a storage and work area separated from the main retail space by a hanging curtain.

“I just made tea,” he said. “I thought we might have some… to settle our nerves.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” she said with a smile, but before he could move away, she reached out to place a hand on his arm. “Cordell,” she began. “I’m sorry about last night. You were… well you were my savior really, and I treated you horribly just because—”

A light tap of his finger to her lips made her jump.

“Think no more of it, Belle,” he said quietly. “As I told you in my message. I was unreasonable, so… let’s just draw a line and move forward, hmm?”

She noticed a delicious burr to his voice, very slight, but definitely there and she wondered if it were a sign of emotion bubbling through to the surface. Would that be too presumptuous of her - to think that her presence might be affecting him, the way his had affected her the previous evening, and was now?

“Sounds good,” she said softly.

They sat together at the work bench that served as their table. The tea was strong, and hot, and sweet, which was, Belle realized, just what she needed to steady her nerves. It would do not good, after all, trying to make a good thread with hands that shook.

Cordell, too, seemed to be clasping his hands around the cup as though it was a lifeline. His was a porcelain cup, and she noticed there was a chip in the rim, and she wondered for a moment why on earth he was drinking from such a cup when he clearly had others that were in better condition. He had given one to her, after all.

_…It’s just a cup…_

The voice… the thought came out of nowhere, and a chill settled in her belly, like fear or worry, that only faded slowly as she focused on the thought.

“Belle?” She blinked, and realized by the expression on his face that Cordell had been trying to get her attention for a while.

“Sorry,” she murmured, “I was—”

She had intended to tell him she was miles away but he interrupted quietly, reaching out to take her fingers into his. His thumb passed a light caress over the back of her knuckles and she shivered.

“I think, perhaps, we’d better make a start,” he said gently. “Come on… let me introduce you to someone.”

“Someone?” Belle questioned almost timidly as she stood, and took hold of his outstretched hand.

“Yes,” he answered, and she thought she caught a twinkle in the depth of his brown eyes. “Mother-of-all. I promise you, she won’t bite.” Belle moved to reach for her crutch, but Gold shook his head. “I think we can leave that here for now… you can lean on me.”

Swallowing a little, she did so, and together they made their way slowly out into the shop once more, and Gold took her to where the spinning wheel stood beside the counter. There was a table lamp that pointed toward it, and an overhead light to be sure that the spinner would have enough light by which to make their threads.

“Here she is,” Gold said softly pointing not to the wheel, but to the spinning mechanism at the other end of the spinning wheel, “Mother-of-all. We call her that because… well, she literally is. Without her there can be no spinning, and she holds the maidens, the flyer and the bobbin.” As he spoke, he rested his hand almost lovingly onto each of the pieces of the mechanism. The two upright pieces that held everything level were the maidens, the c shaped piece of wood that curved above and below the bobbin was the flyer, and of course the bobbin…

He reached and carefully unfastened the bobbin to hand it to her, and she took it carefully, almost as reverently as he had been while introducing her to the parts of the spinning mechanism.

“That will be yours,” he said. “Don’t worry about the piece of thread I’ve already wound onto it. That’s your leader. You’ll attach your thread to that.” She nodded trying to take everything in. “I think your best bet is to work with a flax mix I have… there are several colors.” He gestured behind them to a number of plastic bin’s he had set out, their lids already popped open. “You should choose three,” he said, then with a jaunty little smile said, “If I recall the pattern correctly.”

Belle swallowed again, and allowed him to walk her down the line of containers; taking in the rainbow of colors laid out before her. She bit her lip, and glanced at Gold, who chuckled and told her, “Don’t be shy. You can choose whichever you want.”

His voice had taken on a rougher, but playful edge, almost over-exaggerated, a kind of teasing, as if he knew that she was worrying that if she chose colors that he didn’t want her to use, he would be disappointed. He nodded when she glanced at him again. In the end she chose a paler yellow than the vibrant thread he had given her to begin with, a soft, almost pastel pink, and a brighter red - the color of the roses that grew in her garden, and which she loved so much.

“Good choices,” he murmured, leaning close to do so, and his breath tickled at her neck, making her shiver again. He picked up the pale yellow and brought it over to the wheel, where he set it down beside the stool. Then he returned to her again, and led her back toward the wheel. “Come… sit,” he suggested, helping her to lower herself onto the long stool behind the wheel, before going to collect another, slightly taller stool, which he placed immediately behind the one on which she sat.

“Now,” he said from directly behind her, the warm but commanding tone making her shiver again. “Reach into the bucket, and pull the loose end into your hand.” As she did as he told her, He crooned, “Good. Good… now this is your roving. Feel the softness of it, run it between your hands and try to stretch it… good, draw it out to twice its length if you can.”

Belle tugged gently at the soft chunk of fiber. What had he called it? Roving? Began to run her fingers over it, as she would her lover’s hair. She teased it out, watching the fibers spread and grow beneath her touch.

“I think you’re a natural,” Gold pointed out from behind her. “I already attached your leader to the bobbin, now you’re going to attach your draft… you’re stretched out roving,” he said as she gave a half glance behind herself to where he was.

“How?” she asked softly.

“Why,” he chuckled softly, “By spinning of course.”

“But I… I don’t know how,” she protested.

“It’s easy,” he told her. “I’ll show you.” He tapped her leg, and said, “Put your foot on the treadle, you can move the wheel by hand if you like, but… I think it’s easier when you first begin to have both hands at the drafting.” He leaned closer then, his fingertips sliding down her arms, until his head was almost beside hers, his front to her back. “Easier to _tease_ it out that way.”

The words where all but whispered against her neck, and she bit her lip to stifle the moan that rose up inside her.

His fingers met hers, holding the drafting along with her, guiding her in catching the end of her roving onto the leader, tapping her knee with his own when he wanted her to press the treadle. The wheel began to turn, the drafting caught, and slowly began to twist against her fingers, the mechanism of the spinning wheel pulling and tugging it onto the bobbin as it did.

“You see,” he murmured beside her ear. “I told you it was easy.”

His fingers encouraged hers to slide together and apart along the drafting. The sensual movement sending whorls of twisting sensations down her arms to ground in her center, like lightning seeking earth, as much as the thread in her hand began to draw out and wind onto the bobbin.

“This space between your hands is your drafting triangle. You’ll want to keep it even, to give your thread a consistent thickness.” His knee caressed hers again, and she pushed down on the treadle, trying to ignore the humming, tingling sensation building between her thighs at his closeness, at the way his breath stirred against her skin; the way his fingers caressed hers. “And keep the speed of the wheel steady… listen to it, let yourself,” he murmured, “be one with it.”

Back and forth his fingers brushed along her own, no longer holding the drafting along _with_ her, simply touching her hands for the sake of touching, and she didn’t want him to stop. His thigh along side her own teased with the heat of delicious friction, encouraging the push of the treadle, over and over, a slow, lazy up and down rhythm.

“Now,” he half whispered against her neck, “Let your mind go… open yourself up to the spin of the wheel, the spin of time, the hidden parts of yourself, your life… your memory…”

His voice was hypnotic, the cadence soft, enticing. As a flurry of rain sussurated against the window she felt consciousness sliding away from her. She became sensation, her body moving of its own volition, her eyes closed, and she felt herself almost lean back into Gold’s chest. Something was moving in her, flowing from her and she let it go, let all of it go, just lost herself to the touch of Gold’s hands, the heat of him behind her, his breath against her skin, and then moaned at the soft, damp press of his lips where he neck and shoulder met.

She nuzzled at his cheek with the side of her head, encouraging more, voicing her need, and the deep, deep yearning she felt inside.

“Please, Cordell,” she breathed.

“Spin,” he whispered against skin still damp with his kiss. _…spin… spin…_ His mouth trailed up along the side of her neck, drawing another moan from her. He drew the lobe of her ear between the heat of his lips to suckle gently, but insistent, before he murmured, “Let _all_ of your thoughts and feelings flow into the thread.” Drawing out the whispered words, “Give yourself to it.”

* * *

He felt the moment she became one with the wheel. The tension left her body. Her soft fingers, beneath his, took on the ease of the rhythm, the pull of the draft became even, the tension consistent, neither too tight, not too loose. He lifted his fingers just a fraction from hers, but she leaned back into him, a request - unspoken - _stay_.

The feel of her, small and birdlike in his arms sent bright flares of tender protection through him, that met and mingled with his growing desire; light and dark within him, but she did not shy from his caresses, nor his words, nor did the tone of his words break the moment.

His passion uncoiled, a lazy stirring of deepest need, as he lowered his head to press his lips, his kiss open mouthed, at the junction of her shoulder and neck. He hardened as she nuzzled at his cheek, encouraging his kiss, his caress; her moans, her words, like fuel to the fire of so long apart. He didn’t even question the thought, just whispered, “Spin,” and let his lips, and teeth and tongue glide up along the side of her neck, drawing her moan as a harmony to his words, and the melody of the turning wheel.

He fell into a sing-song tone of his own as his lips found the lobe of her ear, and drew it within the heat of his mouth, his tongue flickering against it, his mouth suckling, pausing only to murmur, “Let all of your thoughts and feelings flow into the thread,” he purred the next words, the sound becoming like a benediction. “Give yourself to it.”

He breathed in deeply, the scent of her, of roses and meadow grasses sweet against the perceptible musky scent of her own needs, and he let his hands fall away from hers, to find her thighs and with a gentle pressure catch their inner softness between his hard, muscled thighs, and the teasing, seeking touch of his fingers. Closer, closer to the burning heat he felt from her core. His touch stroked the sensitive silk of her inner thighs, brushed against the shielding lace of her panties, quickened her breath, quickened his own, their bodies trembling with restrained longing; daring to press closer until—

The door to the shop flew open with far more force than was necessary, and the bell screamed the protests of the shop’s inhabitants as Gold took in a huge breath, released Belle from his caresses, inwardly echoing the soft sound of frustration that escaped her.

“Keep spinning,” he whispered, and pressed an almost chaste kiss to her temple as he levered himself from behind her, tugging at his pants to make his needful state less obvious, though with the interruption his hardness was fading fast. He moved to stand in front of the spinning wheel, obscuring Belle from whomever had intruded on their private moment, grounding his cane and only then looking up at the visitor to speak with cool irritation.

“You know, I’m beginning to think that I wasted my money when I bought that sign,” he said, and then with more venom added, “We’re closed!”

“It’s Henry Mills,” Sheriff Humbert said urgently.

“What about him?” Gold answered with a frown.

“He’s missing.”

Gold’s frown deepened. “And this has… what, to do with me?”

“Look, Gold, I know you and the mayor have some kind of… feud going on between you, but—”

“Are you accusing me of having something to do with Henry’s disappearance?” Gold growled, not at all amused.

“I’m _asking_ if you’ve seen him today?” the sheriff said with obvious impatience.

“In that case, no,” Gold allowed his tone to become more congenial. “No, I haven’t. When was he last seen?”

“Recess, at school,” the sheriff answered easily, “The teacher on duty remembers sending him to the nurse after a fall. The nurse says she looked him over and then sent him back to class. No one has seen him since.”

“I assume the school has been searched?” The sheriff nodded and Gold continued, “Then I still don’t see what this could possibly have to do with me.”

“Just…” Humbert ran a hand through his hair, clearly flustered. “Have you seen him?”

“I already told you I haven’t,” Gold said firmly. “Perhaps you could organize a search party? Comb the parks and woods… especially by Blythe lake. I believe _that’s_ the favorite place for students to go when they’re ‘playing hooky’.”

“We’re already on it,” the sheriff answered, “But Henry’s not the type to skip school.”

“Clearly, in light of the evidence, I beg to differ,” Gold said dryly.

“Look, Gold,” Humbert said with a sigh, “Just… if you think of anything, or if you see him—”

“I’ll be sure to call,” Gold finished.

“Well,” ever polite the sheriff gave Gold a nod, “thank you anyway, for your help, I mean.”

“Any time,” Gold answered, “so long as the sign reads, ‘open.’” Then he gave him a wintry smile and added, “Do please close the door on your way out.”

He watched as Graham Humbert hurried out, remaining motionless as the door closed out the sounds of Storybrooke on a wet evening. He jumped as the light touch of a hand fell against the center of his back, and half turned to see Belle supporting herself against the side of the counter.

“Who’s Henry?” she asked softly.

He turned fully, slipping his hands beneath her elbows to give her better, less awkward support, as he answered, “Mayor Mills’ adopted son.”

She leaned against him, her little hands resting on she silk of his shirt. They were chilled and he worried.

“Poor woman,” Belle said quietly. “She must be beside herself.”

“Hmm,” Gold said absently, more concerned for Belle than for Regina. His own, deeply buried pain answered for him though. “There’s nothing worse, as a parent, than losing your child.”

He took a breath then, as if snapping out of some unfamiliar and unwelcome state, and looked around Belle at the nearly full bobbin. “Are you finished?” he asked.

She glanced over her shoulder, as if weighing the question.

“I feel like I have enough of the lemon,” she said.

He nodded and said, “Feel free to stay and work on the other colors. If you’d like.”

* * *

Belle woke with a start, her entire body pulsing with a rush of pleasure. She blushed, although there was no one there to see, simply the memory of a dream in which she and Gold had not been interrupted by the sheriff the previous evening. She lay for a while, catching her breath, blushing more fiercely as she remembered the truth of what _had_ happened and how wanton she had been. She had _wanted_ his touch, to feel the difference between _his_ fingers bringing her to the peak of bliss, and her own. Her desire for him had been growing day by day since they first took tea together at Granny’s only she had been too stubborn, and either too proud or too timid to admit it - perhaps a little of both. Perhaps not knowing who she was had been the reason she held back.

Sitting up she shook her head, and swung her legs out of bed, reaching for her crutch and heading for the bathroom. In spite of the late night, spent spinning at The Gold Fleece, she felt more alive than she had in weeks.

Maybe Cordell Gold was good for her; was exactly what she needed to move _forward_ with her life, instead of clinging to a past she did not know.

Deciding not to wait for Ruby to arrive, she took a shower and did surprisingly well on her own, and was able to shower, dress, and was sitting down to breakfast when Ruby put her head around the front door and called out a hello.

“I’m in the kitchen!” Belle called.

A moment later, Ruby came in, setting down a bag onto the kitchen counter.

“Well look who’s getting all independent,” she teased, and Belle chuckled as Ruby bent down to give her a hug of greeting. “Granny sent some lasagna, and a tub of cookies for you.”

“Tell her thank you,” Belle said with a smile. “Tea’s hot,” she added, as Ruby began to unpack the items Granny had sent over.

Ruby pulled a cup down from the cupboard and poured herself some tea from the pot, before sitting down opposite Belle, and reaching out, broke off a piece of croissant from one on Belle’s plate, before commandeering a knife, and spreading some peach jelly onto the pastry.

“Did you hear about Henry?” Ruby asked as she nibbled on the croissant.

“I heard he went missing,” Belle said. “Did they find him?”

“Boy, did they ever,” Ruby said, then with a grin and a shrug added, “Well, sorta.”

“Sort of?”

Belle took a side plate from the stack on the counter that was waiting to be put away, and slipped the rest of the croissant onto it, before setting it in front of Ruby with a smile.

“Thanks,” Ruby said, and set about spreading more jelly onto the remaining half. “Skipped breakfast again.”

“Got home too late to _have_ breakfast,” Belle accused softly, and Ruby chuckled.

“Okay, you got me,” she said. “Granny was none too impressed though. Gave me a double shift at the diner.”

“If you want another croissant, they’re in the bread bin,” Belle gestured toward the large metal box on the counter that was adorned with the word ‘bread’ in archaic lettering. Ruby got up to get herself another.

“You were telling me about Henry,” Belle reminded her.

“Hmmm,” Ruby confirmed around a mouthful of pastry. “Came home late in the night. Some blonde woman from Boston drove him back.”

“I bet the mayor was _so_ relieved,” Belle said.

Ruby shook her head. “Not the way, _I_ heard it,” she said “Turns out the woman is Henry’s birth mother, so now the mayor has her panties all in a bunch, especially since everyone seems to _know_. She spent the night in the drunk tank though, next to Leroy because—”

“The mayor?” Belle interjected.

“No,” Ruby sang the words, “The blonde, Henry’s mom, keep up - and get this - she said she saw a _wolf_ on the road right by the town line. Took out the sign by all accounts.”

“And you know this…?” Belle’s voice held a note of amusement.

Ruby shrugged a little with a sly smile on her face. “The sheriff likes to call in to Granny’s first thing for his morning coffee…?”

Belle couldn’t help but chuckle at that, a chuckle that trailed off as Ruby’s eyes narrowed in thought.

“Anyway,” Ruby asked, “how did _you_ know about Henry going missing?”

Belle blushed, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she softly bit her lower lip. Though Ruby was a bit of a gossip when it came to the comings and goings of Storybrooke, they were good friends, and Belle trusted her not to say anything to anyone when it came to things that she wasn’t yet ready to be made public.

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” Ruby teased, sitting back in her chair and folding her arms.

Belle cleared her throat and took a sip of her tea. “I… was in town when—”

“In town?”

“All right,” Belle grumbled. “I was in Gold’s shop. He was teaching me to spin, and the sheriff came in and—”

“Teaching you to _spin?_ ” Ruby raised an eyebrow. “Is _that_ what they’re calling it these days?”

“Ruby!” Belle exclaimed, but her blush deepened, and Ruby softened, reaching across the table to cover Belle’s hand with her own.

“Honey,” she said, “I know you have feelings for Gold, even if I don’t understand how, and if the two of you want to take those feelings somewhere…”

“Well… we _kind_ of were,” Belle hedged, “but then the sheriff… anyway, he really _was_ teaching me to spin.”

“Awkward…” Ruby said, with a surprising amount of sympathy.

For a while the two women each fell into their own little worlds, sharing space and quiet companionship, until Belle eventually broke the silence with a question that suddenly occurred to her to ask.

“Have you seen Jefferson lately?” she asked.

Ruby shook her head, and frowned, “Why?”

“Well,” Belle picked up her teacup as she tried to figure out the best way to ask the question. “At my last hospital visit we ran into the mayor, and she kinda… well she basically told him that Gold wasn’t good for him or the people he cares about, and I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

“He hasn’t been around in town, I know that much,” Ruby said.

“So… what is the problem between him and Mayor Mills anyway?” Belle asked.

Ruby shrugged again. “I don’t know. Nobody really know much about him to be honest. He’s a nice enough guy, though he can be a bit flighty at times… prone to outburst…”

Belle frowned, remembering the day he shouted at her in his car after their visit to Gold’s shop for the first time.

_“I simply meant,” he ran a hand through his hair, and pulled the car into the side of the road outside of Belle’s home, “that if things get too intense for you; feelings you can’t handle—”_

_“I don’t really think that’s likely,” Belle said gently, “I hardly_ know _the man.”_

_“Yes, Belle,” he said, suddenly slamming both hand, palms open, against the wheel, “you do!”_

_He growled then, a sound of dismay and leaned forward to hide his face against the circle of the steering wheel, and Belle blinked, not quite sure what she should do, or where she should even_ put _herself._

“…but harmless enough,” Ruby continued. “He’s always seemed kind of… sad to me. Lonely, you know?”

Belle nodded. She had that impression too. “I just wish I knew what was going on, and why he’s avoiding me.”

Ruby shook her head again. “I’m sure it’s nothing like that, Belle,” she said. “I’ll tell you what; if he hasn’t been in touch by the weekend, we’ll drive out to his place and see what’s going on, okay?”

Belle nodded, feeling a _little_ better, but not by much. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more going on than met the eye.

* * *

Not that he was a mean or miserly man, but Gold hadn’t amassed the fortune that he had by sitting on his laurels and not collecting what was due to him. Consequently, rent day was usually one of his more productive days. He felt as though he was doing something as he harassed his late paying tenants, and rewarded those that paid on time with a rare smile.

One such tenant he could _always_ rely on to pay what was due was the widow Lucas. He held the lease to both the diner _and_ the Bed and Breakfast that she ran, and was fully aware that the former subsidized the latter. There were rarely any visitors to Storybrooke after all.

He was very surprised, therefore, as he approached the door to the Bed and Breakfast to hear the sound of voices, and the content of the conversation from within.

“Would you like a forest view or a square view? Normally there's an upgrade fee for the square, but as the rent is due, I'll wave it.”

He pushed open the door, and entered, moving to stand, silently, behind the blonde woman that was speaking with Widow Lucas - checking in to the Bed and Breakfast. He had of course heard that there was a stranger in town, and that the stranger was apparently Henry’s birth mother; secretly loving the distress that must be causing Regina. They never had seen eye to eye, probably because he owned most of the property in Storybrooke, including some of the municipal buildings.

“Square is fine,” the blonde confirmed.

Missus Lucas opened her ledger and looked up at the woman and raised her glasses to set them on her nose. “Now,” she said. “What’s the name?”

“Swan. Emma Swan.”

Time stopped. Rewound through myriad years in an instant. Place upon place; a dank prison, a splendid but dark castle, briefly given light in the form of his maid. _Belle!_ He should have staggered from the shock of it, but the influx of memories would allow him nothing but to see, to hear, to _feel_ everything that he was and everything that he had ever been. A humble shop keeper, the dreaded dark one, the town coward with a wife that hated him, and the son that was reviled… given the worst name he could have had… could have _ever_ had in the eyes of his drunken father.

_Rumplestiltskin._

The world reasserted itself and he held on to the shred of strength that remained to him in that moment. The knowledge that his failsafe worked. 

He was aware… awake.

“Emma. What a lovely name,” he said softly, a smile on his face.

She turned, enough that she could see him. “Thanks,” she said.

The Widow Lucas pulled his attention from the princess, and held out a roll of cash in his direction.

“It's all here.”

He took the roll of money from her. “Yes, yes, of course it is, dear. Thank you,” he said, then slipped the role of money into his inside pocket and to the princess said, “You enjoy your stay, _Emma_.”

As he opened the door to leave, Ruby Lucas caught his eye and gave him a look that made everything in his being scream in recognition, realization. She knew. Unsurprising he supposed. She was Belle’s closest friend, of course they would have spoken - but was it her blessing, or disapproval?

It didn’t matter, he thought as he all but staggered along the path back to his car, his eyes blurring with tears. It didn’t matter. The _only_ thing that counted in that moment was the realization that Regina had _lied_.

Belle, his _beautiful_ Belle was _there_ in Storybrooke. She was real. She was _alive!_

He climbed into the car, mercifully parked in an out of the way spot, and wept himself into exhaustion.

* * *

“Belle, thank the gods!”

Belle looked up from where she sat, deep in the heart of the woods on the far, far outskirts of Storybrooke. She had taken to going there, not to avoid anyone, just because… well it reminded her of something - a peace that she hadn’t experienced in a long time flowed through her there and it allowed her mind to fall into a rhythm of stitch and chain and cluster, as was needed the same way she had become one with the wheel at Cordell’s shop.

The thought of him sent a rush of longing through her again, as it always seemed to since that night, as if being so close to him had woken something in her, but she didn’t know what. She hadn’t seen him since then either. His shop had been closed, and no one had seen him in and around Storybrooke either. She started to worry.

Jefferson’s tense voice, coming as it was out of the gathering woodland twilight startled her.

“I thought she might have gotten to you already,” he said and all but threw himself down next to her, flicking the tails of his overcoat out of the way first. It was a chill evening.

“Jefferson?” she frowned in confusion, but an icy finger slipped down along her spine. “Where have you been? I’ve _missed_ you.”

He looked a little chastened and reached out to squeeze her shoulder. “I didn’t want my involvement with the queen to cause any trouble for you,” he said.

“The who?” Belle asked, and frowned, completely confused, a confusion echoed in Jefferson’s expression as though he didn’t realize what he’d said, until his eyes widened in horror.

“Mayor, the mayor,” he corrected himself. “She and I have… a past and—”

“I’m starting to think there’s a _lot_ going on in this town that I don’t know about,” she interjected, allowing a hint of her frustration to the fore, and slipping the loop from her hook onto the stitch holder, carefully folded the growing circle, well past the yellow and into the blended pink peaks of the dream catcher. She put it into her bag along with the hook. “I want some answers,” she demanded, gently but in a tone that said she would not be deterred.

“And you’ll have them, Belle, I promise you, but not here, and not now,” he said.

“Why?” she asked. “When?”

“When you’re _safe_.” He answered without pause. “And that’s not here, or now. Not with Regina on the war path.”

“What does she have against me?” she asked in surprise, “And you? Why did she threaten you that day at the hospital?”

He took her hands and she clung to him, his earnest concern flowing to her through the touch, as he explained. “I was in town, and Archie found me. Belle you _must_ go to Gold,” he urged. “Tell him that Regina wants to lock you up. He’ll know what to do.”

Belle pulled back, looking at him as though he’d sprouted horns on the top of his head, or had somehow gone mad. “Wait, What?”

“Gold will protect you,” Jefferson insisted, “But you _have_ to tell him that she _made_ Archie draw up papers to have you locked up.”

The sliver of ice that had run down her spine clamped its jaws around the whole of her and she shivered. “No, no, no,” she insisted, “I… I can’t, he… he hasn’t been at his shop all week, and… and I don’t know where, and—”

Jefferson got to his feet, drawing her up with him, and turned them both so that they were facing the same way, pointing a hand over her shoulder.

“Take that track,” he said, and follow it until you reach the last of the birch trees…” he held up a hand as if anticipating her question, “The ones with silvery-white trunks. When you see the last of them take the track that curves to the right until you get to the highway.”

“Right,” she said trying her best to commit his instructions to memory. “Got it.”

“Cross the highway, and follow the track that leads downhill. It’ll bring you out onto Spinoza Road, opposite Gallant. Take a right. Gold’s house is the second along. Don’t stop for anyone.”

“Jefferson, I… what about you?”

He sighed, and giving her a smile full of sadness and said, “I’ll be fine. Go.”

* * *

Gold was pacing.

Once he’d recovered from his breakdown outside of the Widow Lucas’ Inn, Gold drove home and spent many hours in the basement, at the wheel there, spinning, though this time not to forget, but to organize his thoughts, to make sense of everything - to re-order everything in his mind; to recreate his life’s story.

By the time he’d emerged, blinking into the sunlight, several days had passed, and he knew without a doubt several key details of Storybrooke and the way Regina had constructed her part of the Dark Curse. He couldn’t hate her, because he needed her to cast the curse so that he could come to a land without magic to find Baelfire. He had added the drop of true love to enable Emma to break the curse, he had hidden the rest of that magic so that he could bring it back to Storybrooke and tip the balance once more in his favor, to finally be able to punish the Evil Queen for her part in what _he_ did to Belle…

…he thought.

Now everything was turned on its head. Regina had lied, and yet, he dare not believe it, not even after it was proven by the evidence of his own eyes; his own senses; his own desires.

Needing someone to talk to, he had called the one man he knew was also awake and who he could - at least in part - call friend.

_The hour was late; well after midnight and just as he believed Jefferson would deny his invitation he heard footsteps on the porch. The two halves of his personality argued with each other as to whether he would simply walk in, as he always had done, or knock._

_Jefferson knocked._

_When he thought about it, it made perfect sense to Gold that he would. The man had no idea that he was now awake, and the last encounter they had shared - when Jefferson accused him of harming Belle, and how could he_ ever _? - the mercurial portal jumper had spoken to him as if he believed he was aware_ then _, realizing only late, and with great disappointment, that he wasn’t._

 _He began to wonder what it was that Jefferson might want - might_ need _\- that he could give to him. Bind them again together in friendship, or at least in a deal._

_His instinct was to wave a hand and will the door to open, but in a land without magic, that didn’t work - wouldn’t work - so instead he called, “Come in. For you, my door is always open.”_

_As the words came from his lips he realized it was true, and a slight smile came to his lips as the tall man appeared in the doorway to his lounge._

_“Hatter,” he greeted him, one eyebrow cocked in a playful challenge. A sly smile spread across his face as Jefferson’s eyes widened, and his mouth momentarily dropped open._

_“Rum… Rumple… stiltskin?” he stammered, disbelief clear in his voice._

_In confirmation he gave an exaggerated bow, spreading his arms as he would have in the dark castle, or in the Enchanted forest. “At your service,” he all but sang._

_“But… how?”_

_“Oh, come now, Jefferson,” he said with a chuckle, “You don’t truly believe that I would entrust my most precious curse to a disobedient apprentice without I build in a way that I could waken myself? Two actually, but… well…” he laughed again, as he might have done back in the dark castle, then confided, “I forgot about one of them.”_

_“How?” Jefferson repeated._

_“Emma,” he said simply._

_“Henry’s birth mother?”_

_“The same,” he confirmed. They stared at each other in silence for a moment before Gold broke it. “What… no greeting for your old friend?”_

Gold smiled remembering the embrace, remembering the hours spent talking and drinking, opening up to one another and the promise he gave to Jefferson that no matter _what_ Regina had done he _would_ be reunited with Grace. He would _never_ countenance a father being separated from his child.

“Mister Gold…?” The soft voice broke in upon his thoughts, and his heart lurched, the sound so sweet, so longed for that his eyes misted immediately with tears. “Cordell?”

Before he knew what he was doing, he had crossed from where he was before the fireplace, and reached the hallway to throw open the door.

“Belle!” he breathed. The mist of tears gathered inside of him threatened to drown him. “You’re here. You’re real! I was beginning to think I had imagined it all.”

She frowned of course. Without her memories she would not understand the depth of his emotion, his reaction. Instead of words, he reached out and drew her closer, wrapping her in his arms, and after a moment, she held on to him, the way she had in the shop, after the visit from the sheriff.

He pulled back and gently led her inside, and as he closed the door behind her, turning all the locks the door had, she asked, “What’s going on, Cordell. I don’t understand.”

“No,” he agreed, “but you will.”

“Jefferson said I should come,” she told him. “He said to tell you that Regina is trying to have me locked up. That she made Archie write up some kind of… paper so that they could.” He frowned, grabbing his anger at the news as fast as he could before she could see it. “Why would she _do_ that?”

He gestured toward the lounge and said, “We can sit and talk. I’ll take care of you; keep you safe.”

In the time it took for them to walk from the hallway into the lounge, to sit on the couch together, Gold’s mind fell into a whirl of speculation and worry. How could he explain everything to her and not seem to be insane? She wasn’t awake. To her the notion of magic was superstition at best - folk remedies and the application of psychology.

“Belle,” he started softly, and reached over to take her hand. She clung to him as though her life depended on the contact. “I promise, I will answer your questions, explain why Regina is trying to keep us apart, but… there’s something I need to show you before any of that.”

“What is it?” she asked, her voice shaking.

“My dream catcher,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “I should have told you about it, and I’m sorry I didn’t but—”

“You have one too?” she asked, her eyes going wide with surprise. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

Gold sighed.

“It… haunts me,” he said, his voice full of the shame he felt at having kept it from her for so long. It might have helped her, made it easier on her if, instead of just gifting her with the thread to begin her own, he could have told her what she might expect.

“May I…” he saw her swallow. “May I see it?”

“Yes, of course,” he said, and took a breath before letting go of her hand. “I’ll fetch it.” He offered her a smile. “Don’t go away.”

“I promise,” she whispered.

It hardly took him any time at all to climb the stairs to fetch the once more silk wrapped item and return to Belle’s side. He offered her the package, and she hesitated before reaching for it.

“Why have you wrapped it?” she asked as she set it in her lap.

“I told you it haunts me,” he said. “Like whispers in my mind.”

Belle bit her lip. “I hear those too,” she said, looking up at him, her hand still resting on the silk that wrapped his work. “When I’m working on my own, I mean, but they’re very faint.”

He nodded, “They would be,” he said. “Here, there’s no…” he trailed off, and looked at her hand almost with shame when she reached out she brushed her fingertips against his chest.

“There’s no magic?” she asked, and there was the slightest hint of discomfort in her voice at the word.

He allowed his silence to be his answer, and after several more moments, Belle began to unwrap the silk from around his dream catcher. He took a breath and closed his eyes, preparing himself for the onslaught of feelings, of voices, thoughts… mockery. 

Nothing happened. He frowned, then opened first one eye, and then both, to find Belle gazing at the dream catcher, running her fingers over the fine stitching.

She looked up and their eyes met. “You didn’t finish it,” she said simply.

“No,” he confessed the obvious, breathing out down his nose.

“Why not?”

She left the dream catcher covering her knees, like some kind of decorative blanket and reached for his hand again, drew him closer.

“It’s a long story,” he said.

“We have time,” she prompted. Gold took a breath, trying to think of a way to start, _how_ to tell the story. “And I promise I’ll listen with an open heart,” she finished.

Closing his eyes again, Gold began to tell the tale in a soft, almost hypnotically musical tone; trying to find the right place to begin.

“I started to make it a very long time ago,” he said. “I had lost my son, you see… too much of a coward to keep my promise to him, and come with him to this place, this realm.” He watched her carefully at his use of the word, but she did not react. “A place _without_ magic.”

Slowly, haltingly, he began to unfold the tale of the Dark One, and the dark castle, tiredness and something akin to shame filling his voice as he spoke of all the manipulation and selfish deals he’d made with the people of the Enchanted Forest, painting of himself a terrible, dark picture, expecting Belle would baulk and shy away. He closed his eyes again, waiting for the outburst.

A light, gentle squeeze of his hand, where she reached out and took it into her own. “Go on,” she said softly, and without judgment.

He told of finding a beautiful soul, someone that could speak languages he couldn’t that he _needed_ to have translated - never being explicit about _who_ it was, desperate to awaken even the _slightest_ of memories in her. Told of his time together with the woman who had promised him forever at his dark castle… and ultimately whom he had pushed her away.

He could not stop the tears from falling from his eyes, as he reached that point in the tale.

* * *

His words should have been nonsense to her, a fantastic story full of impossibilities and madness, but with each word he spoke came the sure and certain feeling that what he was telling her was the truth. She realized something else, too, as the tale unfolded, marrying with the details of some of the dreams she’d had since beginning to make her dream catcher.

She let go of his hand, her own trembling slightly as she reached up to tenderly wipe the salty tears from his cheeks.

“You’re talking about _me_ ,” she said. It was a statement, not a question.

“Oh, Belle,” he wept, more tears falling to bathe his face. “I’m sorry. I should never have sent you away.”

She shook her head. She couldn’t speak to that. She couldn’t remember.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. He shook his head, and hairline cracks filled her heart with pain, pain for _him_ at the anguish in his expression. “That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t finish this,” she said, picking up the dream catcher and holding it out to him. Watching as he took it hesitantly.

“I… had to find a way,” he murmured, “to come here, to a realm without magic so that I could find my son. I groomed Regina to cast the spell—”

“Curse,” she interrupted, and he nodded.

“Yes. To cast the curse that would bring us here, but…” he sighed, “but I didn’t trust her not to interfere with its casting, to deny me my memories. I began to make the dream catcher as a kind of… contingency. A way to keep my memories safe so that once we were here, I could take them back, and I would know… everything.”

He swallowed.

“But you didn’t finish it,” Belle pressed. The rational part of her mind was _screaming_ at her. This was nonsense. Talk of magic and curses, and other realms, that way lay madness… and yet…

She reached into the bag that sat forgotten at her feet and took out her own dream catcher, setting it on her lap as she had Cordell’s. Everything he said, every feeling he evoked in her with the story made _perfect_ sense. It was as though they had been granted this one, small moment.

“I didn’t,” he said, and she saw him run his eyes over her work. “It’s exquisite,” he murmured.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Some time after I sent you away,” he began, and she watched fresh tears begin to gather in his eyes. “Regina came to me. She told me lies. She told me lies and I believed them - that your father had been cruel to you… because of me… and you had taken your own life. I couldn’t bear it… to know that I had lost you. That you’d _never_ return to the dark castle, and I’d never be able to teach you to spin your own thread, and make your _own_ dream catcher to keep your memories safe, so that here—”

“We could be together again,” she finished for him.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Cordell, you have to know that these past few weeks, my feelings for you have been growing, even _without_ all of this.” She gestured to the two dream catchers, each on display. “As if something in you _called_ to something in me.”

He nodded, swallowing but did not speak.

“And that night you taught me to spin…” she trailed off, blushing and feeling the whole of her body tingling with the memory of his touch on her as she had. “I want to know,” she whispered, “better than these half remembered shadows.”

“Why…” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat before starting again, “Why don’t you work on your dream catcher a little more.”

“What about you?” she asked.

“I’m going to make up the guest room,” he told her quietly. “But it won’t take long.”

Belle nodded, kicking off her shoes, and turning sideways on the couch to lean against the arm, preparing to work, as she slipped the loop from the stitch holder, and onto her hook. She knew the part of the pattern she was working by heart, and let herself fall into the rhythm, barely noticing when Gold stood up, set down his dream catcher close beside her, and left the room.

The hook moved, almost of it’s own accord in her hands, her mind opening, each stitch she made lifting a speck of imaginary dust from her thoughts, from her heart. She was so engrossed, that she didn’t notice his return, nor feel him slip behind her and take her into his lap to cradle her as she worked. She only knew it felt right, it felt like home.

Hours passed, or was it merely minutes - seconds? Golds hands closed around her own, stilling her movement, stopping her working, and in that moment she realized just how tired she was - drained almost.

“I think you should stop for today,” Gold murmured into her ear, and she shivered, turning her head to nuzzle at him.

“One more round,” she whispered, but felt him shake his head.

“It’s late, Belle,” he said, and took her work from her. She watched almost suspiciously as he slipped the loop onto her stitch holder. “Why don’t we have some cocoa before bed?”

As if waking from a stupor, Belle blinked. “Thank you, cocoa would be lovely,” she said, leaning forward so that Gold could slip out from behind her and head slowly for the doorway.

With a soft sigh, she picked up her work to look over her stitches, perfectionism making her look for any flaws that might be present. There weren’t any, and she wondered at that, given how she had been working almost unconsciously. Something made her reach for Gold’s dream catcher where it lay on the arm of the couch, thinking to compare the two.

Instead, something made her lay her work on top of Gold’s.

A pulse shot through her; warm breath lifted her hair, swirled around her, pulling her into the dream catcher, into the both of them, filling her with certainty, with memory, with self revelation. Tears gathered in her eyes, an ache took her heart and longing filled the whole of her body… all the lingering pain of her accident evaporated like the lie it was.

“Wait,” she called after Gold.

“No, no,” he answered without turning, “It won’t take long.”

“Rumplestiltskin, wait.”

Gold stopped dead and turned to her as she stood up and crossed the room to where he regarded her with a look of mixed amazement and adoration.

“I… I remember. I…I love you.”

“Belle,” he breathed, and reached to wrap his arms around her, drawing her tightly against him. “I love you too.”

She melted against him, feeling safe for the first time in as long as she could remember. They pulled back at the same moment, she found his eyes and saw the same wetness there as she felt in hers.

“How?” he asked, his whispered voice hoarse with emotion.

She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she told him. “I just… I put them together. The dream catchers, I mean. I lay mine over yours and…” she trailed off. “It was as if there were a strong wind blowing through me, and—”

“Magic,” Gold murmured. “I made mine in the Enchanted Forest. There must have been enough to make yours work.” He drew her into his arms again, “Oh, Belle.”

“Rumple,” she whispered.

* * *

Rumplestiltskin dissolved at the tone in her voice, such love, as he never though that he would ever hear. He was a monster, and he didn’t deserved the love of such a beautiful creature of the light, but Belle wouldn’t let him go.

She had always been the one who held the hope for both of them, and it was no less true there in Storybrooke than it had been in the Enchanted Forest. He had just been too stubborn to see it. He could have spared them both all of this heartache if he had just trusted her. She would have found another way to Baelfire.

“Hey,” she called softly, and as if she knew what he was thinking said, “No regrets. No recriminations. We’re here now. We’re together.”

“But we aren’t safe,” he murmured softly, leading her back to the couch and pulling her into his lap. He didn’t want to be more than a breath away from her. “Not yet. Not until the curse is broken.”

“And how do we do that?” she asked.

“We don’t,” he answered. “The Savior does. Emma.”

He watched as Belle picked up their dream catchers, still one atop the other, almost identical in size, and then folded them carefully, wrapping them up together in the silk that had shielded his all through the years.

“Okay,” Belle said.

“But she doesn’t yet believe,” Rumple said.

Belle turned in his lap, ran her fingers through his hair, and he nuzzled the touch, feeling himself beginning to respond, the ache in his loins stirring his cock.

“She will,” Belle said with a certainty that he wished he shared.

“And in the meantime?” he asked. “What’s to say your memories won’t fade again. The curse is… strong.”

Belle shook her head. “My love for you is stronger, Rumple, and I’ll prove it.” He tipped his head to the side, a small sob escaping him at the light of determination in her eyes. “Tomorrow, we’ll sit down _together_ , and finished these dream catchers… and when it’s done, you can do whatever you need to be sure that neither of us forget again.”

She took a deep breath. “I was on my way back to you, Rumple, when the queen took me, and I told her then that I would never stop fighting for you, and I haven’t. I won’t.”

A slight smile twitched at the corners of his lips. “My Belle,” he whispered.

“Yes,” she told him softly. “Yours…” He saw her swallow, but equally as clearly he saw the resolve in her eyes. “Take me to bed, Rumple.”

* * *

She felt shy… nervous, but in a good way, and she wanted him _so_ much that she ached with it. For the barest of moments she thought he would refuse. Then he tenderly took her hand, and together they turned out the lights, and climbed the stairs, one step at a time.

She felt the tremor in his fingers as he caressed hers, and wondered if he were nervous too, or whether the shivering was anticipation, need. After all of his years, his life as the Dark One, she doubted it was because he did not know how to love her.

“Never like this,” he murmured, as though he could tell what she was thinking, “and never so important.”

She shook her head. “You’re all I want, Rumple. You that’s all.”

He brought them to a halt in front of a door, cupping her face in his hands and stroking his thumbs against her cheek.

“Are you sure?” he asked, and she heard doubt in his voice. “You don’t _have_ to do this.”

In answer she reached for the door and pushed it open, letting her eyes run over the shapes she could see in the dim light that spilled in through the doorway behind them. 

“Yes,” she said simply, and drew him inside.

They parted then, but for mere moments, while Rumplestiltskin moved to turn on the bedside lamps, and Belle shrugged off the heavy cardigan she wore. It was warm in the bedroom, pleasant, like a spring morning, and indeed Belle felt like a spring maiden as Rumple returned to her side after turning down the deep red comforter on the bed.

She reached up to run her fingers through his hair, and he turned his head, his lips pressing against the pulse at her wrist, his tongue swirling against it. She moaned softly, encouraging him closer, wanting to feel the softness of his lips on hers; wanting the firm press to part her lips and plunder the heat of her mouth with his tongue.

He cupped her face, his lips brushing a line of feathers along her jaw before he found her mouth, and gave her everything she could have hoped for in his kiss. His tongue pushed past her lips and stroked against her own, his lips wet and slippery against hers as their passion grew, and their restraint lessened.

She slipped her hands out of his hair, down over his shoulders to the line of buttons on his shirt and, one by one, began to unfasten them, until she could break the kiss, breathless, but uncaring, and press her mouth to his exposed skin.

* * *

Rumple moaned as Belle bathed his chest with her kisses, kicked off his shoes and pulled her against him, all but lifting her until he could set her down atop the bed, cover her with his still clothed body. Nothing was close enough.

He shivered, a moment of worry gnawing at his desire. He didn’t want to hurt her. He couldn’t bear to think of it, and pulling back from her, from their kisses, he repeated, “Belle, are you _sure_.” A breath, “We can wait, I—”

“I don’t want to wait,” Belle said, as breathless as he, and pushed him onto his back, straddling him and pressing against his already hard cock. The heat of her core scalded him even though the fabric of his pants.

She moaned and moved against him, pushing up on his shoulders to tug at her shirt, pull it off over her head and toss it away, exposing her bra as it cupped the mounds of her breasts, her nipples visible through the lace. 

He leaned up on his elbows, and took one of the pebbled nubs into his mouth, his teeth tugging at her, his tongue soothing, lips pulling as he suckled, and Belle threw back her head with a soft cry. He slipped his palms upward over her spine, at first in support, and then as his fingers reached the clasp, unfastened her bra and peeled it off, returning his attention to her breasts, taking the other nipple into the heat of his mouth and laving at it until she gave him another soft cry. Then, moving slowly, he gathered her close, and rolled the two of them until he rested half over her once more.

He took a moment to shrug off his shirt, and felt her fingers fumble at the fastening of his pants, the feathery touches of the backs of her fingers against his erection drove him close to insanity, but in the best of ways. He slipped down off the end of the bed to rid himself of everything that might come between them. Returning to her, he slid his fingers upward on her legs until she could grasp the waistband of her short skirt, and the lace top of her panties, and tug them gently down over her thighs, past her knees, and kissing each, as he freed her feet from her clothing, tossed her clothes the way of his.

Her panties were damp against his fingers as he took them from her, and he longed to taste her, to revel in her wetness, to show her all the joys that love could bring. Kneeling between her feet, he nudged at her thighs with a touch, and she parted her legs for him. He leaned over her slowly, kissing just beneath her breasts, swirling his tongue around her belly button, and trailing the wetness of it down toward her mound.

She gave him a deep, needful moan, and his cock twitched in response. He pressed himself against the bed, attempting to ease some of the growing pressure, the growing need as his mouth finally took her, his tongue lapping, without mercy, toward her clit.

Belle bucked beneath the attention of his mouth as his teeth grazed her sensitive nub. She ran her fingers into his hair, arching her back to try and catch the lapping of his tongue just where she wanted it, and when she moaned her approval, he spent many long moments worshiping her core, drinking down her need, and wanting more.

She scraped at his scalp, and he moaned against her center, reaching up to tease her entrance with the touch of his fingertip as he continued to nip and suck and lick at her clit. At her whimper of need, he slowly pushed his finger into her.

She clenched around him, and it was all he could do not to lose his mind at the thought of the pleasure of being inside of her; imagining the feel of her hot, wet tightness gripping him as she gripped his finger now left him breathless, and for a moment he had to pull away, take a breath, and he glanced up at Belle.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, her face flushed, her eyes half closed, and bucked her hips to try and find his mouth again.

He took her again, her risen nub hard against the flickering press of his tongue, and joined a second finger with the first to slide in and out of her body. She moaned, she tensed, and she lifted her hips, gasping her approval, and he could feel the whole of her body tightening in anticipation.

“Oh,” she gasped, “Oh, Rumple,” then cried out, “Rumple!” 

She clenched around his fingers, her sweetness bathing his tongue as she came hard against his mouth, and he moaned at the taste of her. He could never have imagined anything so delicious as the taste of Belle’s bliss. It was liquid light.

As she began to calm, he gently removed the touch, and his lips from her body, taking a moment to clean off his chin on the comforter before he lazily kissed his way up toward her mouth.

* * *

“My Belle,” he whispered as his mouth found hers, and she moaned softly at the taste of herself that lingered on his lips. They kissed long and deep, her body slowly calming from its hypersensitivity. She stroked the tips of her fingers down his chest, down over his belly and watched as he twitched at her touch.

He took her little fingers in his own and guided her hand to tease and stroke his manhood before he released her and trailed his own fingertips over the small of her back. She twitched against him, small waves of desire reawakening inside of her, rolling over her and making her want him again.

He was hard and hot against her fingers, as she stroked and rolled her touch over him and she reveled in the moans and sighs she drew from him. She wanted him inside of her. Wanted to feel _his_ bliss as she had felt his own.

She pushed at his shoulder, rolling with him to straddle him again, this time with nothing between them. She pressed her hot, wet core against his cock and moaned at the feel of it, as he too moaned, their sounds a melody and harmony together. She felt his fingers at her waist, steadying her, as she raised herself over him, guiding the head of him to her entrance, and then slowly took him inside.

Any pain she might have felt was lost in the sheer beauty of being one with him, of having him fill her, and she began to rock against him. He lifted his hips to meet her as she moved against him. He was hers, she was his, their movements and their passions a mirror of each other.

After a while he gathered her against him and turned them again so that he rose over her like the sun at morning. She lifted her hips, wrapped her legs around his hips and gave a short cry as he his thrusts grew deeper. He paused, but she pressed her feet against the tight curve of his behind, encouraging, urging him on, until the two of them became completely lost in one another.

She felt herself grow tighter, her body trembling, beads of perspiration bathing her body, as they were his. His movements grew faster, shallower, and he moaned her name, the sound of his bringing her to the pinnacle, the moment before the fall.

He cried out, the sound a prayer and she felt him pulse inside of her, flooding her with heat, and she shattered again, calling his name as she fell with him, clasping him, drinking down everything that he was.

He sank down onto her, weeping into her shoulder, and she mirrored his tears, their shared emotion washing away everything that had ever stood between them.

As they calmed, Rumple gently pulled away from her, and she felt bereft without the feel of him inside her. He gathered her close, drawing up the comforter, and nuzzled at her temple with his chin.

“Sleep, sweetheart,” he murmured into her hair. “We have all the time in the world.”

“Forever,” she whispered on the edge of sleep. “I will stay, with you, forever.”


End file.
